Familial Relations
by wild wolf free17
Summary: Mary Winchester’s ancestress once made a deal with a shadow which cursed the bloodline forever after. crossover with Devour, goes AU during season 1
1. I Rapture

**Title**: Familial Relations

**Chapter**: I. Rapture

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_Devour_ crossover

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Yahweh, John, Mary, Dean, Sam, Lucifer, Marisol, or Croatoan. Written because I'm sick.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Supernatural"s pilot; mentions of non-con

**Pairings**: Lucifer/Marisol, Lucifer/Croatoan, John/Mary, Croatoan/OFCs

**Rating**: R

**Wordcount**: 1240

**Point of view**: third

**Notes**: _Solare_ is pronounce _soul-heir-eh_

* * *

In the beginning, it existed, dark and magnificent. It was among the first, one of Yahweh's greatest. In the ancient tongue of Heavenborn, its' name was _Croatoan_. 

When the Dark One fell from Heaven, Croatoan followed, ebon wings streaming behind it. It stood beside Lucifer, the Dark One, the most loyal of Lucifer's soldiers, and Solare stood on Lucifer's left.

Once the battle was done and the Dark barred from Heaven, Croatoan stuck by Lucifer. Lucifer told the forces to choose: Hell's endless caverns or Earth's landscape. And they did, spreading out with glee. Lucifer assumed a male form, Solare female, and Croatoan finally picked male, as well.

Eons passed, humanity multiplying and flourishing. Lucifer's forces, too, spread out, tempting Yahweh's favorite children, and mating with them.

Lucifer turned to Solare and mated with her; this enraged Croatoan, though he did not know why. He left Hell in a fury and took his pleasure across the Earth, leaving behind a string of abused and pregnant women. Yahweh struck down the spawn growing inside the females, all but one.

That woman screamed to Lucifer, begged the Lord of Fire to save her child. Lucifer appeared to her, a gigantic shadow, and demanded to know why she dared summon him.

The woman, a harlot called Miriam, pled her case with the Dark One, begged him to let her keep the child. Lucifer called for Croatoan and told him to deal with his spawn.

So Croatoan spoke to the woman, asked her what she would give up, what he would gain from helping her.

And Miriam promised Lucifer's right hand the souls of her descendants forever after, if only she could keep the babe in her womb.

Croatoan made the deal and Lucifer sheltered Miriam from Yahweh's strike, shielding the child that grew inside her.

When Miriam gave birth, it was to a healthy daughter she named Jezebel. Croatoan did not watch over the girl or her mother; he cared for neither of them. He returned to Hell and Lucifer's side, reclaiming his place as the Dark's right hand.

Solare conceived a son she named Luke and sent the child to Earth after he was born. Powerful almost beyond measure, he ruled many human nations. Lucifer smiled upon his son, his heir, his only child, and Solare prospered among the angels of darkened wings.

Croatoan finally found the strength to make his interest known to Lucifer, and the King of Hell took his most loyal demon to his bed. For centuries they lived, lord and consort, happy as only pure evil can be.

Croatoan's seed spread among humanity, each generation growing ever more powerful. Lucifer's heir had many children, each fertile and strong.

And so demon-spawn filled the world, Yahweh pulling away from His creation, content to focus elsewhere.

Lucifer flapped his midnight-wings, creating storms all over the Earth, sowing discord and panic, reaping fear and destruction. Croatoan laughed at his side, always prepared to fight and die for his king.

Pure evil cannot love, but Croatoan came close, as close as anything can. He was content to do as Lucifer bade him, to roam Hell's halls and go nowhere else.

But Solare grew impatient. She had fallen with them at the beginning and shone darkly for a long while, but now she floundered, unable to rise any higher. She had borne the Dark One his first and only child, yet still he favored Croatoan over her!

Amongst Hell's hordes were factions, lower demons loyal to a few high-positioned ones, though all followed Lucifer without question. Most were loyal to Croatoan and so Solare began an extermination of demons. Lucifer struck at her quickly and cast her onto the Earth, where she roamed alone for hundreds of human years.

To regain strength, Croatoan called up Miriam's debt. He summoned dozens of souls from his bloodline and consumed them, changed them into something new.

Yahweh alone could create. Lucifer could tempt. But Croatoan could shift. He took his descendants' souls—his grandsons and granddaughters—and turned them into demons, into shadows and smoke, stronger than any but him and Solare.

Solare and Lucifer's descendants, spawned from Luke, culminated in a woman named Ilina, the matriarch of a powerful clan, each with gifts. Croatoan's line blossomed, called Roanoke, after the place where he culled souls.

Ilina married James Roanoke. Croatoan and Lucifer attended the wedding, cloaked in darkness. Solare sat in the back, in human form, wearing a sky-blue gown.

James and Ilina had three children, each more powerful than the last. Croatoan could feel them burning brightly: Kenneth, Cassandra, Maralyn. His blood flowed through their veins, his strength seared in their souls.

Maralyn, though, called to him especially. If he took her spirit, he would truly be second only to his Lord. And together, even Yahweh could not hope to stand against them.

Lucifer whispered in his ear, "Take her. Make her ours before she conceives or we will be defeated in the end."

Croatoan sent her the dream, preparing her for the Turning, but Maralyn defied him. She had too much raw, untamed strength, to force—the darling girl must be seduce, tricked, wooed into the darkness.

He twisted her Sight, confused her enough that when he offered the deal—join him or lose her yet-unborn sons—she said yes to both without meaning to; at first, Maralyn didn't even know she had.

"I thought, Croatoan," Lucifer murmured, "that I said she could not breed."

A child grew in Maralyn's womb, a boy so powerful he nearly outshone the Son.

"Like Miriam," Croatoan told his king, "Maralyn has given away her descendants."

Lucifer smiled.

-

A son slid from Maralyn(who called herself Mary) at the beginning of the year.

Maralyn's husband had potential in his blood, a distant descendant of Jezebel, Miriam's daughter. So the boy, named Dean Jonathan, was Croatoan's on both sides.

And, therefore, forfeit from conception, if not already his.

Croatoan smiled at his grandson, soaking in his presence. "Beautiful," Lucifer said, twined around his consort. "Make him ours and Yahweh will fall from the Heavens."

-

Maralyn had one more child, another son. Darker than his brother, equally powerful, more inclined to Turn. Croatoan knew that if Hell could claim the second boy's allegiance, Dean would follow.

Croatoan visited Samuel James in his nursery on the child's sixth month. He watched the boy, reading his soul—such potential.

Maralyn strode in, eyes flashing with rage, her power flaring like it never had before. Croatoan preened beneath the onslaught, delighted to see her lash out, dancing within the darkness.

Maralyn whispered his name as he stole her soul and claimed it, and Croatoan felt a cold wind on his back

-

Lucifer sat on his throne in Hell, Croatoan at his right hand. Maralyn stood before them, her sister Cassandra beside her.

"You belonged to us eons before you were conceived, my dear," Lucifer told her, voice soft and unyielding. "Miriam gave us your soul for her daughter's life. You can never leave."

Maralyn looked at her elder sister and the two women—one light, one dark—shared a smile. Maralyn turned back to face the Dark One and his consort, said calmly, "As you believe, Lord of Hell, I am sure it must be."

But her smile sent a thrill of fear through Croatoan, and he shuddered.

Maralyn's hazel eyes gleamed with laughter and Croatoan wondered if maybe he'd miscalculated by allowing this woman sons.


	2. II Bloodcall

**Title**: Familial Relations

**Chapter**: II. Bloodcall

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"/_Devour_ crossover

**Disclaimer**: Yahweh, Lucifer, Dean, Marisol, and Croatoan aren't mine. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: spoilers for "Supernatural" pilot

**Pairings**: none

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 200

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

The boy's hazel eyes gleam at her. The power in his small frame nearly sends her to her knees. She must ask before she can act and slowly the words come. 

He is a good boy, this child, the best yet born. He is kind and loving, with strength enough to shatter the world. His is the blood she needs to complete her plan.

Lucifer cast her aside for that unworthy scum Croatoan, an upstart nowhere near her glory. Lucifer banned her from Hell and Yahweh will never allow her back into Heaven, so she wandered the Earth for years.

And now she stands in this boy's room, watching him sleep, peering into his dream.

This boy cannot turn from a request.

"Will you help me, Dean?"

-

In the morning he will not remember the woman who asked him for blood. He will not recall saying _yes_ or the cold, dry kiss pressed to his brow. He will not remember her dark eyes or the black wings on her back.

A thimble-full of blood, one kiss, and she has a son with this boy, a son of power that rivals Yahweh.

And Lucifer will tremble, while Croatoan dies.

Solare smiles.


	3. III Crystalline

**Disclaimer: **I only own the ones I thought up. I wrote this only because the "Familial Relations" universe has taken over me.  
**Warnings**: spoilers for the pilot  
**Pairings**: Mary/John  
**Rating**: R  
**Wordcount: **6120

* * *

_Forgive me my sins; I knew not what I did._

_Forgive me my sins; I never meant this. _

-

Mary thought nothing of the first dream. Or the second, or the third. She'd had serial dreams before, and repeats—her mother had called it a gift, and her elder sister, Cassandra, a curse. It seemed a simple enough dream: the forest, the shadow chasing her, the dark voice whispering **_Welcome, daughter_** on the wind.

Twenty times across twenty years, the first when she was only seven years old. She talked with Momma on her eighth birthday, learned of the inheritance humming in her blood.

"We are seeresses, daughter," Momma told her, a strong, gentle hand resting on her back. "My own mother foretold of disasters, her sister of fortunes. It passes from generation to generation, growing ever stronger." Momma kissed her brow, traced her jaw with a finger. "And you, my dearest darling, little Maralyn—you are the strongest yet."

Mary, only eight, could not fully comprehend the import her mother's words had on her future. It was only when she first beheld John Winchester, more than ten years later, that she understood.

-

Cassandra helped Maralyn become Mary on her seventeenth birthday. "I can't stay here anymore," she'd whispered hoarsely in the night, wrapped in Cass' embrace. "Please—help me escape."

She hated learning to read the future, to peer into people's souls and know their deepest secrets. She hated memorizing the history, repeating it to her mother's satisfaction. She hated that she was kept from other children, kept from fully knowing the world—and all because of a gift/curse in her blood.

She hated her mother for everything she was never given the chance to have. She hated her mother's expectations, her mother's demands. She hated that everyone in the family, from the elders to the cousins to Daddy, gave in to Momma without a fight.

Cass smoothed her hair down, kissed her temple. "I'll help you leave, Lyn," she murmured. "You don't belong here—not yet."

The only future blocked from Mary's sight was her own. "Tell me, Cass," she begged. "What is it that happens?"

Cassandra's arms tightened and she buried her face in Mary's golden hair. "I can't tell you," she whispered, eyes full of grief. "I'm so, so sorry, Lyn."

-

She snuck out of that life under the warm rays of the sun. Cassandra had sent Momma and Daddy away on a fool's errand; Kenneth, their elder brother, was wrapped up in familial duties on the East Coast. Only Cass and Mary were home that day—until Mary left.

"Goodbye, little sister," Cass said, lightly kissing Mary's lips. Her hair—dark as the midnight sky—wreathed around her, wild and untamable. Her cat green eyes were solemn and proud. "Never look back, Lyn. _Never_. This is not the life for you."

"You'll keep them from finding me?" Mary asked, seeking reassurance. "You really think I can do this?"

"Maralyn," Cassandra told her, reaching out to hold her face with strong, sure hands, meeting Mary's hazel eyes, "if you wanted, you could command the stars. Anything you desire is yours for the taking. If you deny your gift, it will deny you, fade away—no longer will it torment you so." She kissed Mary's forehead and pulled her close, whispered into her skin, "But you will not be able to reclaim it."  
Mary shuddered against her and sniffed back tears before pulling away. "I don't want it, Cass. I never have."

Cassandra smiled. "I know that, Mara—Mary. You are too bright for us." She gripped Mary's hand hard and said, "Now, go on. Get. The world lies in front of you, ripe for the picking."

With one more hug and kiss, Mary was gone.

It was years before she looked back with regret.

-

Her life was hard, at first; she had no experience in the real world. Sometimes, she felt her family's eyes peering for her, but Cassandra shielded her.

She dreamt of the world that was a few times; memories played in her head, wove themselves on the air in front of her. Gentle, sweet dreams, sent from Cass, Mary knew. Dreams sent to show her that Cass took care of her still, always would.

_You were not meant for our life, little sister_, Cassandra's voice whispered in her mind; she smiled as a soft kiss was placed on her forehead. _You were meant for other things; I have seen your children, two beautiful boys. Two beautiful sons who are crafted to shine a light the world has never known. I have seen them, Lyn, Mary—turn your back now on our curse and you are free to be with your children. _

-

Mary was twenty. In her dream, she stood before a canyon, an abyss deep and dark. A shadow flickered into existence; harshly, it smiled and laughed.

**_Welcome, daughter_**, a voice boomed across the dreamscape_. **Why now have you summoned me? **_

Looking upon the shadow, Mary now knew why hated using her gifts of the curse. _I deny you_, she responded. _I want nothing more to do with anything in which you play a part._

The shadow laughed again. **_You are mine, Maralyn Victoria Roanoke. Mine unto the day you die, and then forever after. And your children, as it is your blood that will flow through their veins, will be mine from the moment you conceive them. This is the agreement your ancestress made, all those centuries ago_** The shadow deepened and flowed closer; Mary barely kept the tears from springing to her eyes.

**_Do not weep, daughter_**. The shadow's voice was almost gentle, almost loving. **_Your sons will be glorious creatures. And I will make a deal with you now for their lives. _**

_I don't deal with the devil_, Mary hissed, angry at the insinuation.

Laughter boomed, beating at her**_. I am not the devil, darling. I cannot make that claim and Milord would be annoyed with me if I did._ **The voice turned musing and the shadow drifted ever closer. **_But your blood—one of your heirs—will meet the Dark in all Its glory. Ah, I can barely await the day_**

Finally, the shadow reached her and a tendril stretched out, lightly caressed her cheek. **_Make the deal with me,_**_ **love**_, It whispered, and she shuddered.

_No_, she answered, pulling back. _Never_.

**_I_ _will take your son on his sixth-month birthday and make him mine, Maralyn. Unless you, here and now, make provisions for me._ **

Anger shot through her, bright and sharp_. Do not threaten me, demon_, she snarled, pulling close all her learning, all her powers.

At her back, she felt a light—_I am here, little sister_, Cassandra murmured. _I stand with you, against all. _

_Cass_, she asked, _what do I do?_

_That, I cannot tell you. This is your path. All I can do is help you walk after the choice is made. _

**_You are the most powerful of all Roanoke. Until now, yours is the light that shone brightest. But your seed, your sons—they are what we really desire, what we have looked for through the years. You can protect them both until they are old enough to make the choice… or, daughter, I can take them when they are too young to know_** The demon touched her again, allowed Its tendrils to seep under her skin.

She beat It back with a sharp light and It hissed.

**_Choose, seeress. Choose now. I offer you this deal only once. _**

She had been ready to turn her back on all that being Roanoke entailed, to cut out that part of herself once and for all, to be done with it forever after—

_**Choose**! _

And she woke with a shouted curse, bit off in the final syllable. "Cassandra?" she whispered.

The deep, dark voice saturated her room. **_As you wish, darling Maralyn, so shall it be. Until your sons are old enough, I will let them be. _**

-

John sauntered into her life when she was twenty-one. She was a waitress in a small diner right off the Atlantic, on Florida's peninsula. She attended a nearby college, one class a week, and had a second job at a small store.

She wasn't happy, not like she'd expected, but neither was she caged. Mary was free from the family, free from that part of her life. Momma and Daddy's grip was shaken from her—she could look at people and see only their faces, not their secrets, not their thoughts. And that was a wonderful feeling. Until she met John, she thought it was the greatest feeling in the world.

Her back was to the door when he came in. But she felt something, some flash through her. _Welcome_, a part of her whispered and she turned.

He sat at a table, alone and staring out the window. His hair was dark and short, his body strong; she watched him for a moment, just watched him breathe. She hurried over, smiled at him, asked what he wanted to drink.

"Water," he answered without looking. She delivered him his beverage and he ordered the house special—a ham sandwich with French fries, then a sundae for dessert—still without looking.

All the way until dessert, she watched him. Studied him. He felt familiar, more like _home_ than home ever had. He seemed world-weary and worn, rundown and tired. Almost as though he'd given up on life, decided he was done with the pain of living.

Easily, she could look into him, see the truth. So, so easily. She hadn't since the night the demon-shadow spoke to her, forced Its devil-deal upon her. Had refused, though the power still danced at her fingertips and the knowledge hovered in the back of her mind, behind every thought she had.

But she just smiled in his direction, brought him the check, and he never looked at her. Even back with her family, she had never been ignored. Someone always noticed her, registered her presence: the youngest daughter, assuredly the most powerful child, could not be overlooked. After she left the family, people still noticed her; but she waved it off, ignored their attention, and they soon forgot just how beautiful she was. Her presence.

And yet—this man did not notice her. He saw right past her.

She watched him walk out of the diner; in the doorway, he paused. Glanced back. She met his eyes and he smiled.

He came back the next day, and the day after, and every day for a week. He always sat at roughly the same table and spoke only to give his order, which, too, was the same. He rarely looked at her.

But finally he did. Ten days after she first saw him, he met her eyes straight on and said, "I'm John. John Winchester."

She smiled down at him and lied, "Mary Calmis."

When he asked her on a date, she said yes without pause.

-

She suppressed the desire to read him, to know him. Being near him kindled a fire in her soul long since strangled. He whispered to her, all unknowing.

A year to the day, she knew. Mary had found the one being who completed her; now that she had him, she would never let him go.

After their first time, she lay in his arms and felt safe. Felt that nothing could ever go wrong, ever hurt her again.

When she slept, she dreamt of a forest. A young woman with long blond hair ran through it, sobbing and gasping for air. Mary never saw her face but she heard the dark voice say, **_I knew you would come back, daughter. My seed always do._**

-

She married John in the spring. The sun beamed down, warming her, and a light breeze played with her hair. Cassandra was there, and a few friends she'd made. Cass' belly swelled with child; a daughter, she said. A beautiful girl she'd name Joanna Marian.

"What does Momma say?" Mary asked, sipping her glass of champagne. John sat on one side and Cass on the other. She'd explained some of her history to him, but not everything. Not nearly enough.

Cassandra nearly smiled. "She doesn't approve," Cass murmured. "But she's already lost one daughter. She won't do anything that might make it two."

Mary leaned forward, wrapped her arms around Cass' shoulders. "I'm sorry I left you there alone," she mumbled into Cassandra's neck. "I didn't even think—"

"Shh," Cass whispered, tangling her fingers in Mary's hair and softly kissing her. "Little sister, you had to leave. I never once blamed you."

John reached out, lightly touched Mary's back; she pulled away from her sister and curled into him.

For the first time in years, Mary called to Cass. _What do you see of my future?_

She raised her eyes to meet Cass' gaze and Cassandra smiled. _I see two beautiful sons. _

-

Mary had nowhere to be, nothing to do—so long as she was with John, she was happy. They spent a year in that little town, living off their meager salaries before John said, "Let's travel."

First, they headed north, along the coast. They lived out of the car, a gorgeous Impala John loved almost as much as her, when they had to, to save money. Then they headed west, hugging the border, seeing the sights. The country lay wide open before them, welcoming. For two years they wandered, never settling. Mary loved it.

But finally, she knew that John wanted a home, a place to put down roots. She had no idea where that might be, what he was searching for; but then, as she lay in his arms one night, she heard a murmur in the recesses of her mind.

_Sister… Maralyn. Oh, silly girl._

She stiffened and then curled deeper into John. _Kenneth_, she replied. _How…_

_Hush, darling. I've not let on to our parents where you are. What you have become. I merely wished to look in on you. _

Mary reached out tentatively and he responded with warmth_. I am not your enemy, little sister. I never have been. You did not need to abandon me, as well. _

_How is Cassandra? And her daughter?_ Mary had tried contacting Cass but been unable to. And she'd been so caught up with John…

_Both are well. Mother has attempted claiming the girl, but Cassandra fights tooth and nail. The Elders think Joanna is better off with Cass and Mother hasn't the strength to defeat their will. _

Mary sighed and John shifted, tightened his grip on her. _Are you happy?_ she hesitantly asked him.

_No. But I am content to stay where I am. There is a war coming, Maralyn. A grave, terrible war. Our family is in the middle. You were the strongest, but now your light has waned. You had your choice and you made it, leaving everyone in the dark._ His tone was not accusing, but she heard the residual anger in the words.

_A demon spoke to me_, she said. _In a dream. It called me daughter and said It would take my sons. _

_Deals were made long before our existence. You know that. It is where our gifts stem from. We cannot escape the calling in our blood. _

_No, _she denied. _No, Kenneth. I won't— _

_You will. In the end, we all do. _

With rancor, she shoved him away and buried her face in John's neck, tears pooling in her eyes.

_I am sorry, Maralyn, dear sister. You can hide away and deny your gifts, defy our mother's will, our ancestress' words. You can lie with that man and bear his sons, but those children will be more yours than his. And it will be our blood in their veins, our blood It will seek out. If you return, the family can protect you, claim them long before It does. _

She said the words aloud, murmured them into John's skin. "I will never go back."

_Goodbye then, Maralyn. Become Mary Winchester. Turn your back and burn._

Mary fell asleep with tears on her face.

-

John found Lawrence, Kansas, but it was Mary who picked out the house. They'd lived there for three months, John had found work as a mechanic, and Mary had made many friends in the neighborhood when she told him she was pregnant.

She could feel the gentle light emanating from the boy in her womb. His soul shone brighter even than hers had and she knew the family felt him, too. Slowly, over the course of her pregnancy, she saw members, cousins and elders, wandering through the town, seeking her out, merely to watch. She never spoke to any of them.

But one day as she shopped, eight months along, a woman settled in her path. She was a few years younger than Mary and looked similar to Cassandra, with long dark hair and a worn expression her face. Something whispered on the air.

"Hey," the woman said. "I'm Ellen. Cassandra sent me."

Dread filtered through Mary and in her womb, her son kicked. "Is she alright?" Mary's voice was barely there, and she _knew_.

Ellen's face softened and she stepped closer, reached out to touch Mary's shoulder. "No," Ellen answered gently, shaking her head. "No, she's not."

Mary closed her eyes. Inside she shrieked and screamed, howled her fury; outwardly, she remained frozen, calm and icy. The air shimmered around her and pressure built; "What happened?" she asked, voice hollow, opening her eyes and staring at the floor.

"There was an attack—demons, I think. She was able to save Joanna, but not herself." Ellen shifted closer, lowering her voice. "Her last moment, she called me, told me I had to come see you, tell you, offer—anything." Mary raised her head, met Ellen's dark green eyes. "She didn't trust anyone else in the family but you."

"You have Joanna," Mary breathed.

"Yes."

-

Mary had never seen her niece before. She hadn't seen Cassandra since her wedding, almost four years.

Joanna had black hair and brown eyes, was a beautiful little girl. She looked so much like Cassandra it almost hurt Mary to gaze upon her.

Ellen sat down on the hotel room's one bed and pulled the three-year-old into her lap, said, "This is your Aunt Mary. You can't remember her, but she loves you very much."

Joanna watched Mary with large, solemn eyes. "What're you gonna name him?"

"Dean," she replied softly, forcing away the tears. "Dean Jonathon."

Her niece nodded and wiggled out of Ellen's grip, padded over to Mary. "It'll be okay, Aunt Mary," Joanna told her. "Mommy promised."

Mary couldn't stave off the tears anymore and pulled Joanna to her, pressed her face into the soft, dark hair. "I know she did," she whispered. "She promised me, too."

-

Mary stayed until Joanna fell asleep. "Where are you taking her?" she asked, carding her fingers through the girl's hair. She sat on the edge of the bed, Joanna curled up in the middle. Ellen was stretched out on the other side.

"I've found a family in Jackson, Mississippi. They're good folk, been wanting a daughter for a long time. She won't remember her grandparents, or any of the rest of the Roanoke," Ellen assured her. "And I'll keep tabs on her. She'll be fine."

"Who are you?" Mary looked away from her niece, met Ellen's eyes again. "Cassandra trusted you, I can see that. But I have no knowledge of you at all."

"You could," Ellen responded. "Very easily, you could spread open my mind, walk through me at your leisure."

"I could," Mary acknowledged with a small nod. "But I won't. I swore I would never use it again."

Ellen chuckled and nodded. "You'll regret that. You shouldn't make an oath that, in the end, you cannot keep."

"Who are you?" Mary repeated.

Ellen sat up. "My father is James Roanoke. My mother is dead." She glanced from Mary to Joanna and almost smiled. "I am the youngest Roanoke of our generation, but it doesn't matter. I can only receive, not command."

_Sister?_ Mary sent out and Ellen replied, "Yes."

-

When she got home that night, Mary couldn't sleep. Ellen had said she'd be leaving just after dawn, taking Joanna to her new life, away from all the Roanoke drama.

"The family will look for her," Mary said.

"No," Ellen responded. "They won't. Joanna Marian Roanoke died with her mother. This is Joanna Evelyn Bell."

"Alright," Mary said. "Take care of her."

Ellen's smile was dangerous, razor-edged. "I will, Mary. I swear. So long as I have the ability to breathe, she will be safe."

Mary kissed Joanna, who still slept deeply, and hugged Ellen goodbye.

-

John asked her what was wrong, but she couldn't say. He knew nothing of her past, what she had been—what she still could be.

**_One by one, _**the dark voice whispered,**_ they fall at my feet. You are no different. Daughter—there is no escape._ **

She squeezed her eyes shut but tears still trickled out, slid down her cheeks. She held in the sob as long as she could, yet it exploded out of her in a rush. John woke instantly, fighting, and then, "Mary?"

She hadn't the words, just wept, broken and breaking, screaming for her sister to come tell her everything would be fine in the morning.

John wrapped his arms around her gently and murmured things she couldn't understand, couldn't hear over her blood rushing and her soul begging Cassandra to be alive.

And when she at last surrendered Morpheus, it was to the feel of lips on her brow. She couldn't tell, though, if it was John's kiss, or Cassandra's.

-

Dean entered the world laughing near the end of January. He charmed everyone he encountered, from the doctors to nurses to passersby. He had Mary's eyes and she could stare into them for hours.

She spent one night in the hospital after Dean's birth. It had been easy, quick, safe; the doctor told her it was the best birth he'd attended in his career.

Mary felt her mother's presence the instant her mother breathed Lawrence air. Two elders came with her, one from each side of the family, and her father.

John slept beside her and Dean in her arms. He shifted, wrinkled his face, then opened his huge hazel eyes. He smiled and she felt calm descend on her.

Momma and Daddy could try taking her son from her, as they'd tried taking Joanna. The end result would be the same. She hadn't been Maralyn Roanoke in almost a decade, but she had never truly escaped. She never could. The power danced at her fingertips and the knowledge hovered in her mind.

**_Oh, daughter_**, the demon murmured with a laugh, **_I knew you were there inside._**

Dean cooed and the demon retreated with a snarl.

_No_, she replied, tossing her refusal into the abyss and sealing the door with fire, _I am not your daughter. I am Mary Winchester. _

As her mother set foot in the door, the demon called back with a chuckle, **_Liar. Mine always prove true in the end. _**

-

In the seven years since she left, her mother had aged a lifetime. Still almost preternaturally beautiful, Momma's golden hair was long and full, and her eyes sapphire blue. But her face had wrinkled, sagged. Ilina Roanoke had lost hold of the family and it showed.

But she came flanked on either side by elders, so the family would not let her go far. Daddy stood behind them, towering by nearly a full head.

"Welcome, Mother," Mary said regally, and at her voice, John stirred.

"Maralyn," Momma replied with a nod. "You remember Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Charles?"

Mary flicked her eyes to each, acknowledging them, then raised her gaze to Daddy. "Father."

John sat up in one graceful movement and took in the situation. He reached out to encircle her with one arm, supporting her, but he let her play it out.

"John," she said, "these are my parents, James and Ilina Calmis, and my Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Charles."

"Hello," John said with a nod. "It's nice to finally meet you." His voice was polite and kind, welcoming; but Mary felt how tense he was, his arm around her. She knew they felt it, too.

Momma's smile was icy. "I'm sure that it is," she replied. "But we've come for her, and the boy. They shall return with us."

Rage flooded through Mary. "No," she answered. "I'm staying with John, in Lawrence. This is home, Mother, but I know you can't understand that. You never could."

Momma's eyes narrowed and she stepped forward.

"Ilina, our daughter has chosen." Daddy's voice snapped through the room, sharp and biting. "She made the choice when she left, seven years ago. I have come to welcome my grandson into the world. If you cannot respect and abide by Mary's decision, they you may wait for us outside." The elders parted and allowed Daddy to pass between them; Momma whirled around to face him.

She was only five and a half feet tall; Daddy stood well over six foot. She looked like a porcelain angel, but he was tanned dark with black hair. Mary had never seen them disagree before, much less look at each other with loathing.

"She is my daughter," Momma hissed. "You _know_ how it must be."

"I know how it was," Daddy rumbled. "But Cassandra is dead and her daughter with her. Mary is beyond us, Ilina. Her choice is made and cannot be undone. If we leave her be, she is safe. I have come to give the Ro—Calmis blessing and be done with it."

Mary leaned back against John and he brought his other arm around her front, placed a gentle hand on Dean. He was completely lost, but Mary knew—if Daddy gave his blessing, then his side of the family would defend Mary's choice to the end. Aunt Carolyn caught Mary's eyes and smiled; Daddy's side was behind her decision. She relaxed slightly and returned her attention to her parents' silent battle of wills.

Finally, Momma subsided. She smoothly turned and stepped forward, padded over to Mary's side of the bed. She reached out for Dean and Mary met her eyes straight on.

_If you do anything, Mother, anything at all, I will end you here and now. _

Momma's eyes widened for a moment and then she nodded. Mary handed Dean over and Momma took him with a sigh. "Beautiful," she murmured. "He is the most beautiful child in the world." She looked up, past Mary at John. "Take care of this boy, Winchester. Keep him safe."

"I intend to," John told her.

Momma nodded and Daddy came up next to her, gently plucked Dean from her arms. "Mary," he asked, "what have you named your son?"

"Dean Jonathan," she answered.

"Dean Jonathan Winchester," Daddy said, "you have my blessing, no matter what you do in the end." He kissed Dean's brow and then returned him to Mary. "As do you, daughter," he whispered and kissed her forehead, too.

A few heartbeats later, all four of them were gone and Mary collapsed into John. Dean laughed.

-

Three weeks home from the hospital and Mary still couldn't let Dean out of her sight, petrified her mother would come back for him, steal him away into life as a Roanoke. John never quizzed her about her family, never demanded answers. He just let her know, in his stoic way, that, come hell or high water, he would not leave her side.

And for that, though she had thought it impossible, she loved him all the more.

-

Cassandra ghosted through her dream, hair wild and flowing behind her, green eyes shining with warmth and hope. "If you know Its name, little sister," Cassandra murmured, "you can defeat It."

Mary could only hold out her hands, reaching for Cassandra, but Cass moved beyond her reach. "Not yet, Maralyn," she murmured. "The time has not yet come for me to lead you home."

Cassandra faded from sight and Mary stood alone in the clearing that had haunted her for seventeen years. She turned a circle, white dress billowing around her, and finally faced the man who appeared.

Tall, though not quite as tall as John. Dark blond hair, shorn close. A beat up leather jacket she'd have sworn was John's. Golden amulet hanging from his neck that she knew was hidden away in her house.

"Dean," she whispered and he smiled.

"If you can remember Its name," he told her, moving closer, "It will have no hold on you."

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "I'm sworn to It."

"You're gonna give in so easily?" he asked, nearly laughing. "What sorta example is that?"

"What's the point of fighting if it's useless?" she shot back, wondering where the words came from.

"Because," he said, stretching out a hand to touch her face, tracing her jaw and pulling her to him. He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight, buried his face in her hair. "Because, Momma. You may not have the strength, but us? We who are coming? We do. And if you fight…" His grip tightened on her and she felt him shudder, heard the tears in his voice. "You can buy us time, Mom. We'll need time."

"What's the name?" she asked into his chest, burrowing closer.

"You know," he responded, raising a hand to cradle her skull. "It's hidden deep in your mind. You'll have to search, suss it out—but you will."

She pulled back and he let her. She lifted her head, met his huge hazel eyes. "I won't know you, will I?" she asked, forcing back the tears. "I won't have the chance to watch you grow."

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "We'll meet," he promised. "And then we'll have eternity, all of us."

She lunged to him, grabbing for one final hug, because she felt consciousness approaching, but he blinked out of existence and she was alone in the clearing.

Mary woke sobbing.

-

Dean was a delightful baby. Everyone said so. He laughed often and rarely cried, could calm her and John both with just a smile. She could sit and hold him for hours, listen to him breathe.

She remembered the man from her dream, the man her son would grow into. Momma had been right—he would become beautiful.

Mary could just hold him to her breast, rock him, and consider crying for the man she'd never know. But instead she danced around the house, spinning till he laughed, filling the world with his joy.

-

Dean had been an easy pregnancy, even after Mary learned of Cassandra. Sam was not so.

The family came around again, just as they had for her firstborn, and they stayed in the shadows again. Mary ignored them, shopping with Dean who tried helping but often got in the way. He did everything with a smile, energetically, happily. Everyone who met him fell in love, found themselves wrapped around his finger.

Mary was often exhausted while she carried Sam, exhausted and aching. A weight settled on her soul, in her bones. She could feel the end drawing close.

She curled into John's embrace as long as her body let her; being near him was a balm to her spirit.

The gifts she'd long denied, long ignored, sprang forth in abundance, giving her visions of almost everyone she saw. She couldn't turn it off or turn away.

Dean, too, acted differently. He leapt at the idea of being a big brother, drew pictures for his little brother or sister, asked her every morning if today was the day.

May first, at eight o' clock in the evening, Mary knew the time had come. Dean was dropped off at a neighbor's house and John hurried to the hospital. Dean had been the easiest birth possible, but Sam—Mary winced and begged John to drive faster.

-

Dean loved his little brother. John led him into the room, where Mary held her secondborn, and Dean padded over, peered up. John took Sam from her and knelt next to Dean, showed him the baby.

"What's his name?" Dean asked, eyes wide as he watched Sam sleep.

"Samuel James," Mary answered, smiling.

Dean reached out and softly touched Sam's cheek. "He's so soft," Dean whispered and looked up at John. "Can I hold 'im, Daddy?"

John nodded. He stood and handed Sam to Mary before picking up Dean and setting him in the chair. "You have to be real gentle, okay, Dean? And you have to support his head."

Dean nodded earnestly. "I'll be careful, I promise." Mary passed Sam back to John, weeping inside. To think, soon she'd no longer have this—her boys.

John tucked Sam into Dean's arms, positioning his hands properly. "You'll take real good care of him, won't you?" John said, ruffling Dean's hair.

Without looking away from Sam's sleeping face, Dean nodded. And for an instant, Mary saw the man he'd become—the beautiful, dangerous, protective warrior.

**_You could have saved them that, Maralyn_**, the demon laughed in her head. **_All it took was a single word. _**

_No_, she replied, slapping It back into the abyss. _This is how I've saved them._

John stepped back and leaned down to kiss her. "I love you," he murmured against her lips.

She raised her hand to cup his cheek. "I love you," she answered. "All three of you." She sniffed back tears, but a few leaked from her eyes. "My boys."

-

Mary spent a week in the hospital recovering from Sam's hard labor. Sam spent most of the time with her; she fought tooth and nail every time he was taken out of her sight.

Being near him calmed her; despite the different powers she could feel warring within him, the light shone brighter. And whenever Dean was nearby, any time Dean touched him—oh, yes, whatever deal the demon had made with her ancestress, it ended here. With her boys.

-

Three months after Sam was born, Mary ran through the forest in her dream. She was running toward something wildly, careening out of control, and knowledge danced just out of her reach.

_You_ _know the name_, Cassandra's voice whispered. _You just need to find it._

_C'mon, Mom_, Dean called. _We need the time._

And Sam's innocent, baby laughter filled the forest.

Mary had never been so deep inside herself before, not even when she refused to deal with the demon. She headed deeper.

And then she was back at the abyss.**_ Seeking something?_** Its dark voice hissed.

She stared out over the canyon, reaching with her soul—It beat at her, shoved her away, but she stood strong.

And one word threaded through the air to her ear. She woke with a gasp and a smile.

-

Mary put Sam to bed and then went downstairs to get Dean. He was watching TV and she leaned over to pick him. He was getting big, almost too big to carry. "Let's say goodnight to your brother," she said and put him down. He hurried over to Sam's crib and leaned over the side, kissed Sam's forehead.

"Goodnight, love," Mary whispered and pressed her lips to Sam's skin for the final time.

-

She did not say goodnight to Dean.

When Mary lay down in her bed, John was still watching TV.

And when she woke up to check on Sam, she knew.

-

_I know your name,_ Mary told the shadow, neither triumphantly nor wearily, and Its golden eyes burned.

**_I_ _know yours, as well_**, It replied, streaming around and embracing her. **_Maralyn Victoria Roanoke. _**

_No_, she whispered, looking past the demon to Sammy, watching with innocent green eyes. Cassandra's eyes. _My name is Mary Winchester. And my sons will destroy you in the end_.

Softly, the demon-shadow laughed, tightening Its grip on her_. **Is that a fact, darling? **_

Mary smiled, pulling close the memory of Cassandra's love, of John's kiss, of Dean's pealing laughter, of Sam's first breath. _Yes_, she whispered. _Yes, Croatoan, I swear to you that it is._

She closed her eyes and let her power burn. The only future she never saw was her own—but surrendering to the blackness, she could see the light that came from her, the light carried forth by her sons.

And with her final breath, Mary Winchester smiled. Because the demon, _Croatoan_, had no idea what she knew. As she spiraled into the abyss, her laughter soared to the sky, and she could feel Cassandra leading her home.


	4. IV Genetic Codes

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: wincest, slash incest, het incest, fake incest, pedophilia, child abuse, rape, underage whoring, frequent and graphic self harm, suicidal thoughts and tendencies, AU after "Shadow," spoilers for season one and _Devour_

**Pairings**: Sam/Dean, Jake/Dean, Jake/Sam, Dean/Sam/Jake, various others in the past  
**Rating**: R for language and an assortment of other things(take a look at the warnings. I think you'll understand.)

* * *

When Jake was fifteen he considered suicide for a few minutes. It was after one of his arguments with Dad left Mom crying. Jake hated making Mom cry more than he hated Dad. 

He thought that if he took himself out of the equation, things would be better. Dad would be able to take care of Mom without having to worry about him.

So he took one of the cooking knives and locked himself in the bathroom. It was easier than he thought it'd be and the blade was sharp. He pressed it into his skin and lightly pushed it down. His flesh divided beneath the edge and he pulled it along his arm.

Watching the blood well and spill over, Jake felt no pain. None at all. And that's why he chose to do nothing else.

Thinking back, he still has no clue what that says about him.

He softly ran a cloth across the wound, poured water and rubbing alcohol over his arm, bandaged it. He wore long-sleeved shirts for weeks, until the cut healed enough to be only a line down his arm.

It was months before he cut again. And that time, he took one of Uncle Ross' hunting knives and stabbed it down into his forearm. It hurt, it burned like he'd set his flesh on fire, but it also felt good, so fucking _good_.

He just sat on the porch of Uncle Ross' cabin, blood flowing out of his arm. By the time Uncle Ross found him, he was cold and unconscious, knife slack in his grip.

Uncle Ross covered for him, said it was a hunting accident, and got a blowjob after Jake was released from the hospital.

It was two years later at Thanksgiving when Jake bled himself again. He was building Mom a ramp for her wheelchair, wondering why Dad hadn't done it years before. He had the hammer in his hand when Father Moore walked up and Jake thought for the briefest second how it would feel to slam the hammer into Father Moore's skull. And from there his thoughts flowed to Dad and Uncle Ross and his teachers and his neighbors, all sorts of bloody, painful things he'd _love_ to do to them but never, _ever_ would.

After the Thanksgiving feast and it was only him and his parents at the house, Jake locked himself in the bathroom and slid the carving knife, still smeared with turkey juice, up his left arm, from the wrist to the elbow. And the pain burned, radiated out from the cut to the rest of his arm; he looked in the mirror, watched the blood drip down his skin to the floor, and he smiled.

He dreamed that night. Dreamed of Heaven and Hell and angels falling from the sky. Dreamed of fire and blood and pain, of salvation and damnation, of life and death. Of God and the devil.

That night, he dreamed of sacrifice.

Upon waking, he had no memory of his dreams at all.

After that Thanksgiving, Jake's waking nightmares came frequently. He'd always had them, but sporadically. Now they were almost daily. And they never made sense. Little visions, just a hint, not nearly enough to understand.

He didn't consider telling Connie, not even for a heartbeat. Connie had his own troubles and Jake wanted to help him but couldn't see how. Jake'd asked Uncle Ross, once, if the law could do anything.

Buried deep in Jake's ass, Uncle Ross laughed. Jake took that as a no.

-

Mom moved to the hospital just after Jake's twentieth birthday. He could have gone to any school in the world, done anything he wanted, but he loved his mother too much to leave her.

He has no memory of ever being held by her, ever hugged. It hurt, lacking that, but it wasn't her fault.

Even after he learned of Marisol, he never blamed Mom.

Without Mom at the house, the fights were often and loud. They'd held their tempers and tongues because they loved her and hated to see her crying. And now Jake said what he'd always wanted to say and Dad lashed back with words intended to cut deep.

Only a few times did Dad raise a hand to Jake. Jake had no qualms about fighting back, and he was young and strong.

Eventually, though, they found a way to coexist and neither ever told Mom just how bad it could be.

Jake tried to visit the hospital every day, bring Mom some orchids. They'd talk about books and movies and places around the world Jake would take her to some day. She'd always wanted to see Ayer's Rock and the Easter Islands, Stonehenge and Loch Ness.

"Your father and I had plans," she said. "We'd take you to each of them, make memories as a family. But after the accident…" her voice trailed off.

Sometimes, Jake thinks he can remember the accident, hear shrieking metal and then silence. Even after he learns the truth, he still thinks he can remember the accident.

Jake did care for Dakota. In a way. Not as much as Mom or Connie, but more than Dad. She was beautiful and broken, kind of like him. The first time he laid eyes on her was the middle of sophomore year. She slept her way around the high school, everyone but him and Connie. She tried to seduce Connie but Jake interrupted them. Then she went after Jake, and he gently—far gentler than any partner she'd ever had—took what he wanted.

She was a member of their group after that. But Dakota and Connie never had sex of any kind, Jake made sure of it.

For some reason, he never got sick. Not once. No chicken pox, no colds, no sinus infections, no ear aches, _nothing_. And he's willing to bet he never will get sick. So he'd fuck Dakota and he'd let Uncle Ross fuck him, but Dakota wouldn't give anything to Connie.

And if Jake ever has cause to believe Connie's dad raped him, he'll kill the son of a bitch.

-

By the time Marisol pranced her way into his life and fucked everything all to hell, Jake saw no way out. No escape.

But then she killed Connie and Dakota and Uncle Ross and Dad and _Mom_—he'll mourn only two of them, but he'll mourn those two for the rest of his life. So he stabbed her with the bones and then woke up in an institution, written off as crazy and delusional and dangerous.

Which he is, dangerous. Because he killed Aiden Kater and Marisol, and now he feels the power in his blood.

He's twenty-one. And he knows Marisol was not the devil, but she was damned close. The knowledge swims in his memory, all that he is and could be—

One month after Mom died, Jake's out. Free. There is no record of him anywhere and no one remembers he ever existed. He wanders down back roads, eats when he needs to—not often—and drinks water when he thirsts.

He could survive on blood, if he had to, but he won't. There's no fun in killing.

Jake thinks that's Mom's influence. It sure as hell didn't come from Dad or Marisol.

-

It's almost as year after he freed himself. He's just turned twenty-two, with no celebration, no fanfare at all. He's the end of the world in human form and no one knows he exists.

Jake knows how he was created, pulled the knowledge from Marisol's mind. Thankfully, she hadn't told anybody, scared that someone would make an army of mortals who wield the power of a god.

One of her fellow high demons did, after a fashion. Infused pregnant women with a piece of power, then killed the mothers' on their child's sixth month birthday. Messy and wasteful, it also left evidence. But it did use less power than Marisol's way. Those children could take the world from humans with ease, but even together they could never equal Jake.

When the car stops beside him, Jake knows. Senses it. Feels the hum in his blood.

His father wasn't Ivan Reisz, Satanist. His father was a five-year-old boy who Marisol stole from.

Jake looks nothing like his mother. But he matches his father down to the last freckle.

He's five years younger than Dean and a thousand times more powerful than Sam, strongest of the fire-children.

Before the car stops, Jake knows.

Since he accepted his heritage, the waking nightmares make sense, fall into place. Seeing the future or past is easier than breathing now.

Sam, the uncle barely a year older, also has the gift of sight. Nowhere near as clear and far more painful, but good enough to find Jake.

If he wanted, Jake could send them on their way with no memory of him. Could point them towards Mary's killer, tell them how to kill the demon.

But he's lonely. And bored.

And they're the only family he has since Mom and Connie died.

So the car stops beside him and the Winchester brothers get out and Jake lets them in. Smiles his father's _I'm innocent, I swear_ smile and gives his uncle's puppy eyes. He'll probably never love them like he loved Mom and Connie, but he already cares for them more than he ever did Dakota.

Dean is wary and keeps himself between Jake and Sam. Sam can't take his eyes off Jake. Dean has a gun in his hand, pointed at the ground. Jake knows he has two more guns and four knives hidden on his person.

"Jake?" Sam asks, trying to appear smaller, less intimidating. Jake isn't intimidated at all, of course, because he could obliterate them both with a thought. Sam does tower over him, but Jake doesn't mind. He's more concerned about Dean, his hunter instinct, and the gun—though, of course, it's still no threat at all.

"Yeah," he answers and grins Dean's grin.

Sam steps forward and Dean moves with him, poised to leap if Jake threatens him in any way.

Jake is reminded of Connie and it hurts. His smile falters for an instant; both Winchesters notice. Sam glances at Dean and Dean nods.

"Have you been having strange dreams lately?" Sam asks in a gentle voice, the kind used for scared victims and wounded animals. Jake had used that voice before, when Connie was beaten too much to recognize him. "Dreams that come true?"

Jake shakes his head. He knows they're writing off the similarities and if he's going to go with them, then they'll know the truth.

He's just so goddamned tired of lies.

"I've always had dreams that come true," he says. "Except they're while I'm awake." His gaze flits from Sam to Dean and back. He knows who's in charge of their partnership and if he can convince Sam—without using his abilities—then Dean will follow.

He pushes away the voices, slams the door on his telepathy—Sam will know if Jake reads his mind. He just will.

So Jake'll only listen to what their words say, what their tones say, what their body language says. And he will hope Sam feels the truth of his words.

He may be the most powerful semi-human in the world, but he never asked for it. He doesn't want it. And since he killed Marisol, he no longer wants to hurt people.

His whole life, he knows, that desire came from her, trying to mold him. Turn him to her way, so twisted he couldn't see an escape.

And she very nearly succeeded, he knows. Looking at the Winchesters, he knows she came very close indeed.

"My mother," Jake says quietly, "was a demon. High on the ladder, just a few rungs lower than the devil." He almost smiles as Sam's gaze shoots to Dean then back. Sam'll know Jake is telling the truth. "My parents stole me from her the night she gave birth. She was weakened from the power it took to bring me into the world." Softly, without pause, he explains all that happened. Slowly Sam and Dean draw closer, fall into his voice, into the story. Because he knows he speaks the truth, they can feel that he's not lying. Dean's grip on the gun loosens and Jake meets his eyes.

Speaking to Sam, Jake never looks away from Dean. He seamlessly continues the story, looping back to Marisol and her theft of blood.

He has never vocalized this before and he searches for the correct wording. "It was quick," he whispers. "Painless. You don't even remember. It was a dream, the woman talking to you. She asked your for permission, had to—and you didn't know any better." Dean's eyes deny Jake's words, but Jake can see the memory filtering in. It will never be clear, but now that it's there, he'll never forget. "It was only a little blood, a few drops. The next day, you were the same as ever. Why she picked you…" Jake lets his voice trail off. That is the only thing he's unsure of, _why_ she chose him. He thinks it has to do with their mother, Mary, but he's not certain.

Dean pulls his gaze away, looks at Sam. Without looking, Jake knows they're having a conversation, like he and Connie used to. They're brothers of blood, Sam and Dean, not choice. But still… they're friends. Toward the end, Connie said some things he didn't mean. That final morning, the breakfast they never had, it would have healed them. But Marisol took Connie away.

She wanted him to have only her.

Watching the Winchesters, he ponders how Dean or Sam would have reacted if put in his place.

They'd both snap, kill Marisol for sure, but after that he doesn't know. Sam is just now beginning to grasp his power, trying to control it instead of the other way around. And Dean… Jake can't quite make it out, but there's something lightly humming about him. It's soft, barely there, but he still feels it.

Neither Dean nor Sam knows it's there, Jake bets. But it's important.

"Alright," Dean finally says. Jake snaps his gaze to Dean's face, meets eyes identical to his own. "I'm not quite sure what to believe right now, but we found you for a reason. I'm hungry and so's Sam. We can't leave you here in the middle of nowhere, so…" Dean pauses and assesses Jake. "Hop in the backseat."

Jake doesn't smile, doesn't react with anything but a nod. In some ways, Dean is like Dad, doesn't know how to react to physical affection or praise. Sam's like Connie, though, like Mom. Accepts and gives hugs, pats on the back, just a light touch on a shoulder. But Jake—he's a mixture.

Dean slides into the driver's seat without waiting for Jake's affirmation. He half believes Jake but the rest of him is convinced of Jake's insanity.

Not that Jake can blame him.

Sam gives Jake a steady stare. He can feel Jake's power and now that he's heard the story, he doesn't know how to react.

"C'mon!" Dean hollers from the Impala and Sam straightens to his full height.

"I don't think you're a threat," Sam says. "But if you do anything to hurt him, I won't feel guilt for my actions."

Without hurry, Sam slips shotgun. Dean starts the car and Jake quickly gets in the back.

-

The ride down the road is quiet. Dean's music—the kind of god-awful stuff Connie liked—is muted. The brothers are having another silent discussion, involving shrugs, nods, eyebrows, and shakes of the head.

Jake has never minded silence, but since he turned off the telepathy, he's _got_ to ask.

"How long have you been fucking?"

It's twenty miles down the road, a few minutes from the turn-off that'll lead to a town and food, and Jake can't hold his tongue anymore.

Sam turns around in his seat, Dean jerks the wheel, and they both exclaim, "What?!"

Jake has Dean's _I swear I'm innocent, and aren't I just the cutest thing?_ expression on his face and he asks again, "How long have the two of you been screwing like bunnies?" He's quick to assure, "Not that I have a problem with it. I'm just curious."

Dean looks in the rearview mirror and Sam's still staring at Jake. "You didn't mention being telepathic," Sam says.

"I'm not," Jake replies, but then corrects, "Well, I _am_, but I'm not using it at the moment. Promise." He grins but Sam's not amused, so he continues, "You telegraph it with every move of your bodies, every look. You're so used to it you can't tell anymore, but from the outside looking in, it's obvious the two of you are lovers."

Sam's gaze is level, steady. Jake doesn't look away, just stares back. All the way to the diner Dean picks out, there's an almost strained silence. Jake asked and he's waiting for an answer, Sam's trying to think of something to say, and Dean won't speak first.

When Dean cuts the engine with a weary sigh, Sam says, "Seven years."

Jake nods, asks, "Why?"

Sam licks his lips. Dean is still not talking; he just stares out the window, at the sunset. After a moment, Sam continues. "Dad was gone, on a hunt somewhere or drinking himself into a coma. It was Dean's twentieth birthday and Dad couldn't be bothered to be home." Dean makes a small movement, like he'd gone to look at Sam and changed his mind. Sam half-smiles and says, "Dean didn't let on it hurt him, but I'm neither blind nor a fool. Not even at fifteen. So I broke into Dad's stash of booze. He thought he'd hidden it well, but I think he's always underestimated me."

Dean laughs softly, bitterly, but stays silent.

"I got him drunk." Sam's admission is so soft as to be a murmur of wind. "I knew how much he could drink and still have control. So I took him past that. He hated himself in the morning, for the little he could remember."

Sam has yet to look away from Jake, to look at Dean.

"It doesn't matter to him that it was my fault. That I wanted it. That I wanted it at Stanford, that as much as I loved Jessica—and I did, I loved her a lot—I'll always love him more." Jake doesn't recognize the look on Sam's face, can't decide if it's shame or self-loathing or something else entirely.

Dean sucks in a breath. Jake doesn't need telepathy to know he's probably never heard the words out of the bedroom—or wherever it is they fuck.

"He doesn't care that I've always wanted it, since before I even knew what it was." Sam isn't talking to Jake anymore, if he ever really was. "All he sees is a kid, someone he'd die to save, and he thinks he let that kid down, and no matter what I tell him, he'll never believe me. He does it because I want him to, because I need him to—I don't know what he wants. But he doesn't care what he wants, he'll do anything I want, and—" Sam cuts himself off harshly, tears his gaze away from Jake, throws open the door, and rushes from the car. He stalks into the diner and the doors slams shut behind him.

"Fuck." Dean says it wearily and lowers his forehead to the steering wheel.

Jake doesn't know what he'd been expecting the answer to be, but it sure as hell isn't what he got.

And for some reason, he can't keep quiet. That _something_ in Dean's blood, in Jake's blood because of Dean, is humming at him, demanding he _fix this_, which is fucking ridiculous because he can't fix anything, including himself.

"My Uncle Ross fucked me when I was fourteen," he says conversationally, like he said instead, _You know, looks like rain today._

Dean moves so quickly Jake almost can't see him. He rears back, spins around, gapes at Jake with horror and the beginnings of fury.

Jake shrugs. "I was spending the summer with him, at his cabin away from town. Mom and Dad needed time together, with me completely out of the picture, so I spent three months with Uncle Ross, hunting. He taught me a lot in those twelve weeks." Jake's laugh isn't entirely sane, isn't mirthful at all. "It was the third week when he collapsed next to me on my bed. When he said that though he'd taken me in as a favor to his sister, I needed to earn my keep. So he told me what to do and I did it."

He raises his gaze from the back of the seat to the eyes exactly like his. "It wasn't about love, Dean. Never. It was about want, submission, power." His smirk is razor-edged. "About owning beauty." Dean's nod is reluctant. "I expect you know about that." Jake is hesitant, really unsure of his footing here. It'd be so easy to let the power flow out of him, to know the correct words, to pull everything from Dean's head.

So easy. Which is why he refrains.

Dean doesn't look away. And when he smiles his dangerous, razor-edged smile, Jake is ready with the mirror.

They get out of the car with reflected movements, walk side by side, twins separated by five years, demon blood, and memories.

When they enter, Sam raises his head. He's gotten control of himself, gotten them a table, and ordered three waters.

The meal is silent until Jake makes an inane comment about sports. It's so stupid Sam snorts. Then Dean laughs. It's laughter of relief, but it's contagious. All three of them laugh for far longer than the remark deserves, but conversation is steady after. They get dessert and walk back to the Impala in companionable silence.

It can't last, of course. Jake knows it and so do they. But for the night, soul bearing is over.

Jake tries to look into tomorrow. While Dean navigates the town and Sam fiddles with the radio, Jake tries seeing the future.

He hasn't felt this way so swiftly since he met Connie when they were five. Then, he didn't know it for what it is. Now he does.

Before the Impala stopped beside him and his family got out, he knew.

Jake is well and truly fucked, and tomorrow is blocked from him.

"How about here?" Dean asks, shooting Sam a sideways glance.

"Sure," Sam shrugs so Dean flicks his eyes to the rearview. Jake nods; he doesn't care where they stop. He hasn't slept in a bed in almost a year.

There's two beds in the room and Dean says, "I'll take the floor."

"No," Sam answers. "I will."

"I'm oldest," Dean shoots back. "So I get first choice. I called the floor."

"You know," Jake cuts in, "_I_ could take the floor."

"No," both Sam and Dean reply instantly, simultaneously. They're a few feet apart, Sam in the middle of the room and Dean by the door.

Jake would suggest they bunk together, but even before he knew he could read minds, he'd have been able to see that would be the worst thing to say now. He could also suggest he bunk with one of them, but that would also not go over well.

"You're hurt, Sammy," Dean says rationally, seriously. "Don't pretend your ribs aren't still bothering you. So, you get the bed."

Sam goes to argue for the sake of arguing but pauses. He considers Dean for a moment before deflating. "Fine," he mutters and tosses his bag on the bed closest to the door.

Jake glances from one to the other. "Mind if I take a quick shower? I haven't had a real one in a long time."

"You don't smell that bad for someone who hasn't bathed," Sam comments and Jake smiles.

He shuts but doesn't lock the door behind him. Looking in the mirror, he's still the same as ever. But inside… he can feel something shifting, changing. His world was turned on its axis, flipped over and shaken around. Everyone he remotely cared about died—because of him. The woman he thought he could grow to love turned out to be his _mother_—and she killed Mom. She killed Connie.

He killed her and still hasn't felt regret.

_Of course_, he admits silently, meeting his reflection's hazel eyes, _I was fucked up before Marisol_.

Jake slips the thin jackknife from his pocket. While Sam and Dean had their pissing contest over the sleeping arrangements, he'd palmed it from Dean's bag.

Tracing the blade with his thumb, he grins mirthlessly when the skin parts easily.

He places the knife on the side of the bathtub and strips. Turns the water on hot as it'll go and slips under the spray with a hiss.

"Jake," Sam calls through the door, "is there any shampoo?"

Jake glances around and calls back, "Yeah."

Sam doesn't say anything else so Jake reaches out and grabs the shampoo that materializes before him.

So he can't see into the future but he can still summon stuff. He wonders if being near Sam and his gifts is blocking his own. If so, it doesn't matter. He's not leaving them now that he has them.

He rinses out his hair. The water is still as hot as it can go and he makes it hotter with a thought. For a moment he wonders if he could heal. Sam's ribs are tender; Jake wonders if he could fix them, make them good as new. Better than new. Both of them, his father and uncle—could he make them invincible?

For one shining second, he thinks about it. But then he remembers that everything has a price. And he won't make them pay it.

He already has, once. But he survived Mom's death, he survived Connie's death. But Sam couldn't survive Dean's and Dean wouldn't survive Sam's.

He picks up the knife, still flicked open. He slides the blade down his thigh and sighs when the skin tears.

A small amount of pain. He turns so that the scalding water hits the wound and it burns so beautifully—

He lets the water beat down for a few minutes more then turns it off. He towels dry and slips his clothes back on. He could create some but he's worn out from the excitement of the day, feels drained. He hasn't slept well in a year, but wonders if tonight he will.

-

When he leaves the bathroom, Dean's in the motel chair, feet propped up on the bed Sam claimed. Sam's stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling. They've changed clothes; Sam's in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, while Dean's in boxers.

"Here," Dean says and tosses Jake a bundle of clothing. He pulls it apart to reveal boxers and a shirt. Jake nods and slips back into the bathroom.

When he leaves the bathroom a second time, Dean's making a pallet on the floor. He's taken one blanket and one pillow from each bed. Sam watches from his bed and smiles at some of what Dean's muttering.

Jake wants a brother so much it hurts, aches deep inside him. The closest he came was Connie.

Sam turns his head and meets Jake's eyes. For a second, Jake wonders if he projected the thought but then Sam looks back at Dean. "Satisfied with your nest yet?" he asks.

Dean shoots him a glare. Jake has a feeling he missed something while he changed clothes.

-

Jake wakes when Sam does. Dean's already up, sitting in the chair, watching them.

Sam's breathing shallowly, gasping down air. Jake feels an echo of the dream, the nightmare, the vision, the premonition.

"It's never been that vivid before," Sam says, looking at Dean.

But Jake's the one who speaks. "I'm sorry."

Both of them turn toward him. There isn't much light, since it's two in the morning, but Jake can see them perfectly.

He's always had good night vision.

"When we left the diner last night," Jake tells them both, but looking between them, at the window, "I tried to see what tomorrow held. Ever since Marisol—it's been easy. I didn't do it often because I didn't need to, but whenever I did, it was easier than breathing."

The Winchesters share a glance. Jake takes a breath and keeps going. "But I couldn't. There was a wall between me and the pane of glass that shows the future." He chuckles, then laughs, and can't stop. He wants to, he tries to, but in a year he's never let his emotions go.

He may be half-demon, but he's also half-human, and he's long overdue for a breakdown.

Jake rolls over onto his stomach, gasping and crying with laughter. Dean moves first, settles onto the bed next to him, slowly and gently runs his fingers through Jake's hair. Sam slips out of his bed and comes around Jake's other side, stretches out beside him.

By this time, the maniacal, uncontrollable laughter is over and Jake's wracked with sobs. He's almost silent in his grief, only gasping a few times.

He can't hear anything except his own thundering heartbeat, but he feels them, feels their warmth, feels their hands, one in his hair and one on his back.

For the first time in ever, since before be can remember, even with all his power, Jake feels safe. And he sinks into the best sleep of his life.

-

When he wakes the second time, it's well into the afternoon. He's curled up beside Sam and Dean's on the other bed, facing him.

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," Dean greets him, with a warm smile.

Jake knows he's finally passed the final test. Dean, now, will treat Jake like he treats Sam. Which both comforts and terrifies him.

"I'm sorry," Jake says. "Somehow—and it shouldn't be possible; hell, it's _not_ possible—he had my vision."

"I know," Dean replies. "And you don't need to apologize for that. He picks things up, always has." Dean shrugs.

Jake slips off the bed and Sam rolls over, eyes flickering open. His hand catches Jake's. "Why did you stop?" he asks, voice thick and full of—something. Jake can't place it, just like he couldn't place Sam's expression yesterday.

"Stop what?" Dean asks, springing to his feet in a movement smoother than the cougars Jake used to hunt.

Sam's eyes don't leave Jake. He answers as if Jake had asked. "When you were fifteen—the knife. Why didn't you finish?"

"Because it didn't hurt enough." Jake's voice is hollow, as hollow as Sam's green eyes.

Dean places one hand on Jake's shoulder, the other on Sam's wrist. "Let him go, Sammy," Dean whispers, softly squeezing Sam's wrist. "You need to wake up and let him go."

Sam's grip is iron and the pressure on Jake's fingers feels good. Slowly, Sam's lips stretch into a smile. The ghost of a smile, Jake amends, and Dean's voice is harsher. "Sam. Let him go."

Dean could break Sam's grip. So could Jake. But they both know, Jake bets, that more will be broken than Sam's grip if they take the choice from him.

"He'll never let us go, Dean," Sam says. His voice is still harsh, deep and dark. "Neither of them will. Mom and Jess' killer—he's pissed that we've held off this long. It's a war—a long, bloody, death-filled war. We'll never escape." Sam's eyes, bright and glittering with tears and knowledge, still haven't left Jake's. "And Jake won't let go either," Sam continues, grip slackening a little. "He's like you, except more stubborn." Sam's eyes flick to Dean. "When I asked you, you let me go. But even if we beg Jake…" Sam's laughter is full of dark promise. "Which we might, before the end, he'll never, ever let go."

Sam's fingers loosen around Jake's. He shivers; Jake can feel him tremble. He blinks and shakes his head, releases Jake fully and lets his hand fall. Dean lets go of Sam and pulls his arm back, leaving his other hand on Jake.

"I'm sorry." Sam's voice is barely there and Dean sighs, sinks down beside his little brother. Jake doesn't know what to do, if he should back away, leave them alone. Marisol murmurs in the dark recesses of his mind, whispers for him to let go, to release the power at his disposal. He shoves her away with rancor, with a bitter delight. He didn't give in a year ago and he sure as hell won't give in now.

Dean glances his way and his eyes ask _Are you okay?_ Jake shrugs, unsure.

Sam looks up, completely apologetic, his big puppy eyes full of sorrow and fear—of himself, of the past and futures he saw, of Jake's reaction.

Jake has never lacked tact, but sometimes he chose to ignore his better judgment. That dream of Sam's ran both ways and he saw some things, too. So when the words form in his mind and flow to his tongue and he takes a breath to speak—he knows he should keep quiet, back away, leave them to whatever they'll say. He should hide out in the bathroom, with memories and a blade, should bleed for what he is and all his mother had done.

He should. But he doesn't. He says, "When you were nineteen, why didn't you pull the trigger?"

Dean's voice rings out, loud and disbelieving. "What?" There's an undercurrent of danger threading through the words and Sam flinches back, hitting the wall.

Jake continues, "When you cleaned and loaded the gun, when you held the barrel to your temple and rested your finger on the trigger—why didn't you pull?"

Sam hasn't looked away from Jake and he doesn't have the words for an answer, so Jake takes pity and tells them.

"Because," he says, glancing from Sam to Dean and back, "it would have been too quick."

He walks to the bathroom and locks the door behind him.

-

Jake spends the better part of an hour in the bathroom, sitting with his back to the door. He twirls the open jackknife with his right hand, then tosses it to the left and does the same. He thinks back to the past, to the life he had before he turned twenty-one.

He wasn't happy. Not then, and not now. He can't explain but he doesn't think he was meant for happiness.

Dean, though—he could be. And Jake's fucked it up, like he always does.

Jake clenches the knife in his fist and jams the blade into his other palm, twisting and wrenching it. The pain is glorious, and not nearly sharp enough, so he jerks the blade across, ripping and tearing his skin from one side to the other.

But it's not enough. No matter what he does, it'll never be enough. He aches inside, deep and long, for things he'll never have, could never have—he's demonspawn. Created to be the end and no matter how much he denies it, tries to do anything else… nothing is changed.

Distantly, Jake realizes tears are pouring down his face. The pain in his hand is receding, far too swiftly, and he takes the knife, holds it to his inner elbow, jabs down—with relish, he pulls it down his arm, smiles as pain blossoms.

Behind him, the door shakes. Someone is banging on it, but everything is distant, hazy. The knife slips from his fingers. Jake doesn't see the darkness coming and he falls into it without qualm.

-

_He knows it's a dream. The certainty fills him but he doesn't fight for consciousness. _

_Dean is kneeling in an alley and Sam is across the street. Jake can see them both and he thinks about speaking but doesn't. Suddenly, Dean's younger; thirteen, if that, Jake bets. Sam's still twenty-three, though, and his face is swiftly darkening with rage. _

_Now, Jake knows whose dream this is. But why would Sam be asleep—didn't he just wake up? _

_The man—old, pot-bellied, disgusting—hurries down the alley toward Dean, and Jake **knows**. He knew earlier, back in the car, when he spoke of Uncle Ross—but that is different from this knowing. Now he's **seeing** it. _

_And if the man were before him now, Jake would kill him without pause. _

_When the bastard stops in front of Dean, Jake closes his eyes. _

-

His eyes open. His left arm is numb, feels heavy, bandaged. He's hungry, thirsty, and he has to piss. He can hear two voices arguing and one sounds like his.

Jake tries to sit up and nearly accomplishes it before collapsing back onto the bed.

When his vision clears, Dean's face is looming above him, eyes wide with fear and anger.

"You would kill him," Jake says, tongue tripping on the words. "If he weren't already dead."

"I have thing against pedophiles," Dean answers, somehow knowing where Jake's out-of-the-blue comment came from. "Which is funny, since I am one, myself."

Sam's face appears next to Dean's. "You're not a pedophile, Dean," he says before focusing on Jake. "What the fuck do you think you were doing?" he demands.

Jake sighs and replies with, "I really have to piss."

"I don't care," Sam returns. "I don't give a flying fuck what you have to do, because you're not doing it until you tell me why you felt the need to carve a river and ocean into your left arm!"

Jake actually feels a little cowed. "It didn't hurt enough. For my crimes." He turns his head, trying to escape their gazes. "It just didn't hurt enough."

He feels the bed dip next to him. "It'll never hurt enough." Dean's voice is gruff, weary. "Never, no matter what you do. So, you'll keep doing more, fighting monster after monster, defeating them all, getting thrown into walls and down stairs and out of windows—you'll get bones broken and concussions, bruises and cuts, rips deep into your skin and your soul. And every wound, it'll hurt less and less, so you'll seek out more."

Jake turns, watches Dean, watches Sam watching Dean.

"To make up for what you think you've done," Dean continues softly, not looking at either of them, "you'll try to kill yourself every day. But you never can manage it, because deep down, you don't want to die. If you die, there might not be any more pain. Hell, you might even get into Heaven, somehow." Dean's bark of laughter is sharp and biting. "You fucked your little brother when he was fifteen and no amount of pain will ever make that better."

Dean reaches down and gently picks up Jake's left hand. "This?" he says, and Jake meets his identical eyes. "This isn't pain. This is rage. And you're going to keep on punishing yourself for surviving them, for _ruining_ them, and it will _never be enough_."

Jake lifts his right arm and places his hand on Dean's face, runs his thumb along Dean's skin. Dean licks his lips and Jake pulls him down, raising his head a little to meet Dean.

It isn't soft or gentle. But they both can take it and they're both fucked up enough to want it.

Distantly, Jake hears Sam sigh and then a door closing. Barely over Dean, the noise of the shower tells Jake what Sam is doing.

But then Jake's attention settles where it should, on the father who could be his twin.

Dean isn't soft or gentle, but Jake doesn't want soft or gentle. So Dean gives him what he needs, and then he gives Dean what Dean needs, and he'll deal with the fallout when it comes.

-

Jake is getting tired of waking up. He's tired of his soul leaking every which way, of not having control over his emotions. Tired of Marisol in the back of his mind, telling him it's just a matter of time, that he'll prove her son in the end.

He's just _tired_.

But the fourth time he wakes in the hotel room, it's a slow process. He pushes toward the light, through a mist and clouds and rain. He fights for it, determined he's had enough sleep for a lifetime.

His eyes open to sunlight, bright and glorious. The shades are drawn back and Sam stands at the window, dressed in jeans and dark shirt.

"Feel better?"

Without looking over at Jake, he asks the question. Without inflection or accusation, he still accuses.

Jake discards half a dozen replies before answering honestly. "Yes."

Sam turns and Jake realizes Dean isn't in the room. "He ran to get gas for his car," Sam says and prowls closer.

Glancing around the room, searching just to be sure, Jake reaches out for the hum that is Dean. Then he notices that his arm is healed but for a pale scar. He sits up and swings his legs off the bed. "The hell?" he asks, raising the guilty appendage for inspection.

Sam laughs softly and stops just before Jake, standing between his knees. Jake looks up and up and up—damn, Sam is _tall_. "I came out of the shower and it was healed," Sam explains, taking Jake's arm in his hands. He trails his fingertips along the scar and Jake sucks in a breath. Sam's eyes meet his and the uncle barely a year older smirks dastardly.

"You look like Dean when I left for Stanford," Sam murmurs, his right hand trailing up Jake's arm to his face. "Sometimes, I wonder why, _how_ I could possibly leave." He cups Jake's cheek, eyes burning with—Jake thinks he knows this one. Misplaced desire.

He should push Sam away, pull back, not stand and tilt his head. But what he _should_ do and what he _does_ do are two completely different things and Sam's kiss is familiar—like Dean's, Jake thinks.

He is so completely fucked. The thought makes him laugh and Sam pulls back slightly, lowers his head to kiss his way along Jake's jaw. "What's so funny?" he breathes into Jake's skin.

"Life," Jake answers and Sam chuckles, too.

-

When Dean gets back, Jake is watching TV and Sam's surfing the web.

Jake's been thinking. As much as he wants to, he can't stay with them. He's too fucked up, too dangerous. Marisol is in his blood and his mind, whispers nasty things to his soul, and he's terrified one day he'll listen.

He asks before he knows he's formed the question. "Would you kill me?"

Dean and Sam look over, Dean from the bags and Sam from the laptop. Then they glance at each other.

"No," Dean says, gazing at something Jake can't see. "No," he repeats, more strongly. "Because if you die, it means they've won."

Jake wonders if the three of them will ever talk about the discussion in the car, the discussion after Sam's dream, the discussion after Jake nearly sawed his arm in half. And the sex. They _really_ need to discuss the sex.

Sam nods and adds, "I wouldn't, either."

"But what if I go evil?" he asks. "What if I follow Marisol's way?"

Dean goes back to sorting clothes and Sam stands, leans against the wall. "Do you want to?" Dean retorts, almost like an afterthought.

"No," he says decisively. He doesn't want to be a thing like Marisol, not in any way.

"Are you like her?" It's Sam this time, Sam's comforting voice, Sam's _everything is alright and nothing has ever been wrong _tone. And it works. Jake feels himself calming; he can also see Dean's smirk, even though Dean's back is to him.

Jake thinks for a long second. "I killed a man."

"If I remember correctly, Jake," Dean comments, "you said you felt bad about that."

"I do."

"Do you think Marisol feels badly about anyone she killed?" Sam wonders aloud.

It's rhetorical, but Jake answers anyway. "No."

"There you go, then," Dean says. "You may be her son, but you're not hers. You have a choice, Jake." Dean turns around, one of Sam's shirts held loosely in his fingers. "That's the beauty of being human. You have a choice. Blood is a large part, but it's not and never will be the deciding factor."

Jake stares at him, taking in everything. Comparing what he sees before him with what he sees in the mirror.

"Do you feel guilt for what Sam did?" Jake asks after a lengthy silence.

Dean's eyes flicker but his face stays comforting. "Yes."

"Why?" Jake's eyes stay locked onto his father's, but he can feel Sam's restlessness, feel how much Sam wants to jump in.

"He's my little brother. Mine to protect. And I…" Dean searches for the words but they won't come.

"You love him," Jake offers. "More than you ever will anyone else. If you had to choose between him and the world, you'd light the world afire and watch it burn. And it's not the sex, is it? That's just one part, like the blood. But you don't have the words to tell him how you feel, not often enough. So you don't use words to tell him, you use your body. And you wish you had the strength to stop the fucking, because he's still your kid brother, still that baby you remember holding, and it disgusts you, that you take and give pleasure."

Jake doesn't know where the words are coming from but he can't stop them. Dean's eyes are guarded, but he hasn't made any move to leave or shut Jake up. And Jake sees the abyss looming, knows he's about to plummet right over the edge and into it, and he has no idea if he'll be able to find a way out.

"But, see, what you don't know, Dean, is that Sam _knows_ all that. He knows how you feel, about him and yourself. He knows. He's always known. And he's tried to tell you but you don't want to listen. Because if you hear him say all that then he's not your baby brother anymore. Then he's no longer innocent. You don't want him blemished, tarnished, because you have to keep him safe." Jake watches Dean fight himself; a part of him denies the truth, will deny it forever. Another part of him unfurls, says, _Yes_.

Jake closes his eyes, feels Marisol in him, trying to tempt him and he knows it has to stop. He can't be a battleground anymore. So Jake reaches deep in his soul with tendrils of his power—_Marisol's_ power—and finds where it all stems from. If he can cast this from him, send it away, Marisol will have no root in him, nothing to hold him with.

It's a black pulsing light, diseased and disgusting. Now that he sees where it all came from, he wonders how he could ever have used it.

_What are you doing?_ he hears. Her voice. Her voice a year after she's _dead_.

_Finishing it_, he answers. _Finishing **you**._

Her shriek fills his head, a ringing denial, and it hurts, but he takes his father's blood and his will and he grabs the light, covers it over with—something, something that has no name. Mom's face blinks in his memory, even here, and he knows now the _something_ is filled with love. So he takes every memory of Connie, of Mom, every memory Sam and Dean have of each other, and he pours it all into his tendrils, grabbing hold of Marisol's dark light. And he pulls. He covers it over and he yanks it out, and then he casts it into the void.

The chasm opens before him and Marisol shrieks, and then laughter, deep laughter, sounds around him. _Marisol's son_, the deep voice says_. You turn your back on all she was?_

_Yes_, he responds, voice trembling but sure.

_I will offer you no more chances. _

The name pops into Jake's mind but he refuses to form it_. I don't want any_, he replies, staring into the abyss.

_So be it, child_, the darkest of the dark proclaims. _Hell will have no hold on you_.

Jake casts Marisol's light from him and then collapses, mind and body no longer enough to sustain him. It streams from his blood and tissue, from his bone and skin, from his mind, his soul, his eyes—he will keep the knowledge he gained but not the ability. He will remember that he could destroy the world had he so desired, but the power will no longer flow through him.

The laughter booms, builds, breaks over him, and the dark voice murmurs, _It is no longer yours, Jake Grey. What it cost so much to give you has now left you forever. But parts will remain. The war will be no fun if all the opponents are weak, so some of it will still flow in your blood. But remember, Jake. Remember. When the time comes, remember what you have given away. _

A wave scoops him up and tosses him back, out of the crevasse in his soul, and his eyes open with a gasp. He shivers, realizes he's half lying on someone's lap and half lying on the bed, and someone is talking. Two someone's. Arguing.

He's fairly certain he's been here before. Laughter bubbles in his throat but what comes out of his mouth is a keening wail. Now that it's gone be realizes what he had, and he will miss it—but the cry trails off and he knows, he's _sure_, he will be better now.

"It's gone." His voice is rough, barely there. "All of it."

"Jake," he distantly hears Sam say, "Jake, where did you go?" A gentle, calloused hand touches his forehead. Sam speaks again, softly says, "You're safe now, Jake."

Jake focuses his gaze on Sam and tells him, "Marisol isn't there anymore."

Sam smiles but Jake can it's strained. He wonders why and tries to ask. But the words won't come. So instead he asks, "Where's Dean?"

"He had to go deal with the neighbors," Sam explains, his fingers still threading through Jake's hair. "You were screaming and we couldn't…" Sam shudders. "We couldn't reach you."

"I'm sorry," Jake whispers, barely staying awake.

"Go to sleep, Jake," Sam murmurs, leaning down to kiss his forehead and then lightly pressing their lips together. "Sleep."

"Okay," he mutters and closes his eyes. For a little while longer, Jake holds on to consciousness, feels Sam card his fingers though Jake's hair, listens to Sam murmur in a comforting tone. But finally, Jake drops off.

-

He wakes in a car. After a moment, he recognizes it—Dean's Impala. He's stretched out in the backseat, a coat spread over him and a sweatshirt bundled up beneath his head.

Sam and Dean are softly talking in the front; the music is muted. Jake strains to hear them but all he can make out are their voices.

"Where are we?" he asks finally, sitting up.

Sam turns around in his seat, smiles at Jake. "Just passed the Colorado state line. We have a friend in Lost Creek; she's letting us stay there for the night. Tomorrow we'll decide what to do."

Jake stretches, trying to work out the kinks, but his neck and back still ache. "How long?"

"Three days," Dean answers. "Sam had to carry you to the car."

"I'm sorry," Jake tells them. Instinctively Jake reaches for the power, to see who this friend is, to see if there's any danger—but nothing. There's only a blank, empty space where it used to reside. "For everything I've done to you."

"Don't be," Sam responds, eyes sincere and voice calm. "We had to find you, Jake. We had to. And I—we—think…" Sam catches his gaze. "You're ours, Jake. One of us." Sam shrugs. "Do you feel it?"

Jake nods. His whole life, he's felt out of place. Even with Mom and Connie—something was missing. Had always been missing. Some part of him felt empty, those twenty-one years. And then it all made sense—he wasn't even _human_, so of course humans couldn't fill him or make him happy.

But after he met Dean and Sam, he felt… complete. Whole. Parts of him that had been empty were filled. Like pieces of a puzzle, all the jagged edges fit together flawlessly. Seamlessly. He stretches with his senses, tentatively, wondering… and he _feels_ them.

_But parts will remain_, the dark voice said. And Jake can feel Dean, feel Sam—their minds hum, their blood calls to him, and he answers. He's lost the power to end everything and gained a family. He figures it to be an even trade.

Dean stops at a McDonald's and they buy lunch. It's a quiet meal but the silence is not strained. There's so much to think about, to reconcile with everything he's ever known.

He listens to the hum and feels at peace. There is something coming, he knows it—that dark voice… even now, he doesn't think the name. But he _knows_—and he shies away from that thought. He can do nothing at the moment.

So he says, "Tell me about this friend."

"Well," Dean starts, "she sure is a pistol."

Sam laughs. Jake can't help but smile.

"Her brother was kidnapped by a wendigo," Sam continues. "Our dad sent us the coordinates to the place, otherwise we never would have caught wind of it."

"We might have," Dean cuts in, taking a bite of his Big Mac. "But it would have been too late for Tommy; probably Haley and Ben, too."

"Anyway," Sam says, "Haley is Tommy's little sister, and Ben's the youngest. Haley hired a guide to take her through the forest, determined to find Tommy. It's just the three of them since their parents died." Sam eats a couple of fries and Dean steals some.

"So, in the end," Dean adds, "I torched the son of a bitch and we saved the three kids."

"What about the guide?" Jake asks, finishing off his fish sandwich.

Sam and Dean share a glance. "No one likes a skeptic," Dean says. "And wendigos hate to be shot at."

Jake thinks about that for a moment then comments, "Guess that's true." He drains the rest of his water then questions, "So you just called her up and told her you needed a place to stay?"

"Well, uh, see," Sam answers, "turns out that Ben sometimes just _knows_ things. And Haley called us. Said Ben knew we were tired and needed a rest."

Dean takes over. "In your sleep, you said it was okay, that we'd be safe in Colorado." He shrugs. "So here we are, 'bout an hour away."

Sam finally finishes his third burger and drains the last of his coke.

"Black hole full?" Dean snarks and Sam smirks.

"You're just jealous 'cause I never gain weight."

Jake smiles and clears their table, taking one last sip of his water before throwing everything away. "I gotta go," he says, gesturing to the restroom.

"Don't worry," Dean says, "we'll wait."

Jake rolls his eyes.

-

"Jake?" Sam asks and Jake glances towards the front. "You said that it's gone. All of it. And Marisol." Sam twists in his seat, looking at Jake. "What did you mean?"

Licking his lips, Jake wonders how he can possibly explain. "I, uh," he starts and then pauses. He drums his fingers on the window. "I sorta went inside myself, down deep where my power was. My center. Or whatever. And I…" He takes a deep breath. "I cast it out." He meets Sam's eyes, then Dean's in the rearview. "It's gone. All my abilities. The telekinesis, conjuring, telepathy, foresight—poof. Cast back into the abyss."

"But you still have something," Dean says. "Don't you."

Jake nods. "Same as you."

-

Haley is pretty much what Jake expected, and so's Tommy. But Ben—

"Sure have grown, squirt," Dean chuckles and Ben ducks his head. He's almost as tall as Sam, gangly and awkward, unsure of his movements. He doesn't look at Sam directly but keeps glancing at him out of the corners of his eyes.

Jake and Dean share a smirk; Sam blushes.

Haley tells them that there's the guest bedroom and the couch. Neither she nor her brothers had blinked when Jake got out of the Impala. He doesn't know if that's because of Ben or what, but he's glad for it.

Tommy says, "We're having steaks for dinner," and Dean whoops.

"So, how've things been?" Sam asks Haley. Jake's hanging back, unsure of his place.

"Really good," she answers. "Tommy's fine; everything healed perfectly. The state paid for the hospital and Tommy's boss gave him some time off, paid leave." She smiles up at Sam. "Thank you—both of you—so much."

Sam smiles in return and shrugs. "It's what we do."

It's over supper that Ben says to Jake, "You're going to regret letting them go."

Jake freezes and Sam questions calmly, "Letting what go?"

Ben smiles sadly at Jake. "All your abilities—they would have come in handy at the end. But now…" he shrugs. "A little bit of knowledge, knowing when your family's in danger, an affinity for fire—it'll be useful, but when the time comes, it may not be enough."

Tommy and Haley look uncomfortable, but the Winchesters and Jake focus on Ben.

Jake says, "It'll have to be."

Ben meets his eyes and answers, "I guess so."

The moment passes. Sam asks Tommy what his job is and Dean talks about cars with Haley. Jake watches Ben and Ben watches Jake.

After supper, Haley clears the table and Sam helps her with the dishes. Tommy shows Dean some electrical gadget—usually, Jake would have been interested, but he follows Ben to his room.

"What do you know?" he asks and Ben falls back onto his bed. Jake stays by the door, leaning against it.

"Everything. What you were, what you are. Who they are to you." Ben's voice is solemn, but Jake hears the want threading through it.

"My family," Jake tells him. "And I won't let anyone hurt them."

Ben laughs softly. "I feel the same way. Dean and Sam, they're…" his voice trails off and he shakes his head.

"I know." Jake pushes off the door and lets himself fall beside Ben. "They're something else." He looks Ben right in the eyes. "You won't get Sam. Not the way you want."

Ben nods. "I know that. It was obvious then, back when he saved us. But it's even clearer now." He sighs and stares up at the ceiling, stretched out next to Jake. "I had the first dream a few weeks after Tommy came home from the hospital. I saw Sam and Dean—they were younger, sparring. Then hunting. And then they found you. In my dreams, they jumped around, from places to ages. Over and over, at least three times a week for months, I dreamed their lives. Watched them grow and fight, and finally…" He licks his lips and laughs softly. "Finally," he murmurs, "I saw them fuck."

Jake laughs, too.

"Anyway, so about a week ago," Ben continues, "I dreamed about you. Only you. Your parents, both sets, your friends—and the abyss. I woke knowing Dean's phone number and that the three of you needed a place to rest."

"You'd told Tommy and Haley about your dreams?" Jake asks.

"Of course," Ben answers. "At first, they didn't want to believe me. Dreams of the past, the future… but Sam and Dean saved us. We'd be dead without them." Ben rolls over and looks at Jake. "Haley said then, at Blackwater Ridge, that those things aren't supposed to exist. But they do. So my dreams…" Ben trails off and Jake nods his understanding.

They lie in silence for a few minutes and then Ben questions softly, "How was it?"

Jake's laughter rings out, loud and full. Ben grins and chuckles, "Was that redundant?"

"Pretty much," Jake answers, unable to stop laughing. Finally he does, though, and leans against Ben, whispers into his ear, "Best ever, in the history of the world." Ben shivers and Jake pulls back, Dean's predatory smirk on his lips.

Ben's gaze flickers from Jake's eyes, down his face to his mouth, and then further south. Jake almost preens but refrains. Ben licks his lips and pulls his gaze away. He's sweating and breathing shallowly; Jake takes pity on him and slips off the bed. "I'm gonna see what they're up to," he says and Ben nods.

But as he walks out, Jake tosses over his shoulder, "Just ask, Ben. I am as close as you'll ever get." He smirks again and softly shuts Ben's door behind him.

They spend a week with the Collins'. Jake gets the guest bed three times, the couch twice, and the guestroom floor twice. Sam shows Ben some moves that take advantage of his height, Dean teaches Haley some self-defense techniques that can't be defeated, and Jake plays with all four of their computers, working out each bug and improving their speed. All three Collins' are taught the basics of guns. Haley takes to it with ease. Ben prefers no weapons, but Tommy likes knives.

By the time Sam has a dream, it's been seven days. Dean enjoys the Collins' company, but he's itching to move on.

Ben never takes Jake up on his offer; Jake had known he wouldn't.

Jake sleeps well each night, out like a light. It isn't dreamless, but the dreams are pleasant. Memories of Connie and Mom, replays of his time with Sam and Dean, and flashes of the man he could have been.

Sam wakes on the eighth day and says, "It's time to go." Jake's on the floor and Dean has the couch.

"Okay," Jake answers.

By noon, they're packed and gone. Haley hugs all three of them. Tommy claps them on the shoulder and Ben moves restlessly, unsure of what to do. Finally, as Dean slams the trunk shut, Ben lunges forward and pulls Sam's head down, presses their lips together. Sam doesn't react for a moment but then he places his hands on Ben's shoulders and kisses back.

When Ben moves away, he's blushing and blinking furiously, unable to look at Sam, and stammering, trying to think of something to say.

"See you later," Sam says to Haley and Tommy, giving Ben a warm smile. Ben studies the ground but raises his head when Sam walks away.

Jake meets his eyes and nods, smiles once more, and slides into the backseat.

He doesn't look back as Dean drives away, but Sam watches their house recede in the mirror.

"So, what'd you see?" Dean asks a few miles down the road.

"Meg," Sam answers, flipping the visor back up. "She had some kid, a boy about eight or nine. She was daring another boy, twelvish, telling him that he couldn't do it."

"Do what?" Jake inquires, stretching himself along the seat.

"I don't know," Sam replies. "But I know that we have to get to Fitchburg, Wisconsin, before she does."

Dean nods and speeds up.

"So," Jake says, "either of you gonna tell me who Meg is?"

-

Jake's been waiting for the time to tell them how to kill the demon.

The thing is, he doubts both of them, Sam and Dean, will make it out alive. He already knows he won't.

Marisol's knowledge of ending her own kind was complete. She hadn't made it to a few rungs below—well, so high in the hierarchy by being nice. When she went after someone, she erased them from existence. And Jake knows everything she knew.

But he no longer has the power. He hates himself for not taking the chance when he had it. And he knows they will, too.

Dean stops for lunch and Jake says, "It's a trap."

Sam nods. "Probably."

"I know how to kill it."

Dean freezes in the act of opening his door. "It?" he repeats, turning his head to look at Jake.

"The thing that killed your mom, killed Jessica. It's messy and slow, could backfire in a hundred different ways, because we're all just plain humans, now—mostly—but if we do the ritual right, the demon will be gone forever."

Dean laughs incredulously. "So while you were all hopped up, more powerful than God, you didn't think to mention this?"

Jake looks at his hands. "I'm sorry," he says softly and Dean sighs.

"Let's eat," he mutters and gets out, softly shuts the door behind him. It's louder than if he'd slammed it.

Jake lifts his gaze to Sam. "It takes blood," Sam says. "Doesn't it." Jake nods and Sam studies him for a moment more. "Before the vision," Sam tells him, "I dreamed of something else. Of someone falling—a man. But he jumped, to take another's place. I couldn't see his face, just feel him—he was happy."

Jake isn't sure what Sam is saying so he doesn't have the words to respond. Finally, Sam says, "Let's get inside before Dean orders the worst thing on the menu."

With a tired sigh, Jake opens the door and slides out of the car. When Sam follows, Jake tells him, "I _am_ sorry. If I'd've known—"

Sam cuts him off. "I know, Jake. I dreamed your life, remember? I know." Sam runs a hand through his hair and mutters something about stubborn jackasses, but Jake can't make out most of it and doubts he really wants to. "You just…" Sam lowers his head and steps forward, into Jake's space. "You had the world in the palm of your hand, Jake. And we're lucky that you're basically a decent guy, because you could have done some really fucked-up things. But you didn't_. You didn't_. And that right there proves the guy you are."

"But I didn't do anything good, either," Jake interrupts, almost embarrassed. "I just wandered, like some demented Forest Gump."

"Yeah," Sam admits with a soft huff of laughter. "You did. But you're a demented Forest Gump that could have gone Voldemort on the world and didn't. You're a demented Forest Gump that could have taken over, and if you were more like your mom, you would have. And, yeah," Sam adds, reaching out and grabbing Jake's shoulders, "it would have been nice if you took care of that fucking demon for us, but you didn't. And we—_I_—can't hold you guilty for that."

Jake looks up into Sam's eyes and raises a brow. "Okay," Sam amends, "we could. We've been chasing it for two decades and counting, and it's all I remember, all I know—but." He stops, searching Jake's face for something. Jake waits a moment and then goes to move away, to head inside, but Sam's grip tightens. "Listen to me," Sam tells him softly. "Actually listen, okay?" He pauses and Jake nods. "I forgive you."

Jake almost smiles and looks away, out past the car, at the horizon. Sam lowers his head, rests on Jake's, and Jake reaches up, strokes his face.

"This is so fucked," he mutters. "Really, truly fucked."

"Yeah," Sam answers. "It is, a bit."

They stand in silence for a moment, listening to the world and each other's breath. "We should get inside," Sam finally murmurs. "Before Dean really loses his temper."

Jake nods but doesn't move, except to raise his face a little. Sam takes that as his cue and leisurely leans down, whispers into Jake's mouth, "You taste like him."

"So do you," Jake whispers back.

-

By the time Sam and Jake make it to lunch, Dean's mostly finished. He's silent when they sit down, he ignores them when they order, and he doesn't react when they talk to him.

Sam rolls his eyes and asks Jake, "Have you seen _Day of the Triffids_?"

Jake's gaze flickers to Dean but he looks back at Sam and says, "Yeah. The book's a million times better."

So they eat and discuss the merits of the novella versus the film and let Dean stew. Jake hopes Sam knows what he's doing, and supposes he does—he has a lifetime of practice.

Sam swallows his last bite of burger and pulls out a twenty, places it on the table. Jake drains his glass of water and stands in tune with Sam. Dean lifts his head, eyes them both.

"Goin' somewhere?" he asks lazily and takes a sip of Coke.

"We gotta get to Fitchburg soon as possible, Dean," Sam says. "Two kids—maybe more—are in danger."

Dean purses his lips and stands. "You're drivin', Sammy," he states, raising his glass for one final gulp. "Me and Jake have some talkin' to do."

His smile is pure evil and Jake's actually scared. He brings up the rear, dragging his feet, and Sam shoots him a compassionate smile before getting in the Impala and starting her up.

Dean opens the back door and gestures for Jake to slide in. There's nothing else for him to do, and Dean follows him in, gently closing the door.

Dean doesn't say anything for roughly fifty miles. And there's no way in hell Jake is going to speak first. Sam keeps his peace, too, and Jake understands. He still feels a little betrayed, though.

"So, your uncle," Dean says, staring out the window. "Why'd you let him rape you?"

"Seemed like too much trouble to make him stop."

Sam makes a noise and Jake looks toward the front. "You saw that?" he questions.

"I saw—something," Sam answers. "But I wasn't sure."

"And somehow," Dean continues, "what he did to you and what I did to Sam are different?"

"Yeah," Jake replies in disbelief. "Because you love him and he wanted it. He _initiated_ it, from what I know. He practically made it almost impossible for you stop. If anything, Dean, _he_ raped _you_."

Dean's head whips around and he glares at Jake. Jake wants to cower back but he met Marisol's stare when he thought she was the devil and there's no fucking way Dean is scarier than her.

No. Fucking. Way. So Jake clenches his fists and meets Dean's eyes and refuses to blink. Refuses to look away from Dean's burning stare, refuses to give in to the fear churning in his belly and the knowledge that since he gave up everything, Dean could kill him before he even thinks about moving.

Not that Dean _would_, of course. Jake hasn't done anything to deserve killing, not really, and Dean only goes after active evil. Plus, Sam would stop him.

Finally, after an eternity of barely breathing and warring within himself, Jake relaxes because Dean smiles. It's bitter, razor-edged, dangerous—but it's a smile. Dean says, "He didn't."

Sam whispers from the front, "I did." He sounds disgusted and angry and full of self-loathing. "Holy fuck, Dean, I _did_."

Jake leans up, peers around the driver's seat. Sam's hands are clenched tight on the wheel, a pale white. His jaw is clenched, too, and Jake wonders if it hurts.

Dean sighs and tells Sam, "Pull over."

Jake looks from one to the other and then down at his hands. He stays in the car when they get out. He may be a part of them, but it's not his place. He wasn't there at the beginning, even if he has some of Sam's memories floating around in his skull. He wasn't there, so he can't know—he forced this, maybe, with his questions and curiosity, with his face, and he may be fucked up, but this—

He raises his head and looks out the windshield, where Sam's gesturing wildly but not yelling, and Dean's just gazing up at him. Dean says something and Sam deflates, sinks in on himself. Sam reaches out, rests his hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean moves into the touch.

Jake smiles. With all the mistakes he's made, it's about damn time he did something right.

-

They're a few miles out of Fitchburg and Dean's asleep shotgun. The sun set hours ago and Dean didn't stir when Sam and Jake switched places.

Dean might kill him for driving without permission, but Sam said he needed to rest, so either they stopped for the night or Jake could drive the Impala.

She's the hottest car he's ever seen. No one in their right mind would turn that down. Jake feels right behind the wheel, with Dean and Sam and a mission. What mission that might be isn't quite clear yet, but he does know where it will end.

The knowledge sings in his memory, Sam and Dean's blood hums to him, and Mom whispers in the back of his head, _You're home, baby. You're home now, where you've always belonged._

Jake sees the hotel and asks, "This alright?" Sam says yeah, so he turns into the parking lot. Jake heads in to get a room and Sam just stretches, staying by the car.

The office is empty so Jake dings the bell and winces at the noise—he's always hated that sound. A kid slouches out of the back, barely thirteen, if that. He leans against the counter and looks up at Jake, asks, "King or two queens?"

Jake responds, "Two queens."

The kid's eyes flick past him so Jake looks back, sees Sam through the window, resting against Dean's Impala. "Yeah, I'll bet," the kid mutters and Jake smirks.

-

When the room is finally sorted out, Sam wakes Dean up and Dean grumbles something about inconsiderate mongooses. Jake raises an eyebrow and Sam shakes his head, so Jake doesn't ask. Dean falls face-first into one of the beds and Sam sinks down beside him.

"That kid," Sam says, running his hand along the comforter. "The one at the front desk? He's one of the boys in my dream."

"Well, at least we know we're at the right place," Jake comments, throwing himself onto the other bed.

"Yeah," Sam sighs and stretches back, pushing Dean over.

"So, ya'll're good now, right?" Jake asks, turning his head to look at Sam.

"Good as we ever are," Sam answers and Jake smiles.


	5. V Blood Kin

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters excepting the ones I thought up. Just for fun.

**Warnings**: pedophilia, child abuse, rape, underage whoring, AU after "Shadow," spoilers for season one and _Devour_

**Pairings**: various het; slash(pedophilia) in the past

**Rating**: R for language and an assortment of other things(take a look at the warnings. I think you'll understand.)

* * *

_I'll offer you a deal, but I won't offer twice. So take it now or don't take it all. _

_-_

Dad left on Asher's first birthday. Michael barely remembered him. When he was younger, he asked Mom to talk about him, to tell stories of the man she loved, the man she married, the man she gave two sons. She wove marvelous stories for him, bone-weary and hurting, and Michael didn't know how much it cost her till it was too late to apologize.

The stayed in Jackson for a couple of years after Dad left, until Mom couldn't stand it anymore. She had an aunt in Fitchburg, Wisconsin, so she took them there. Aunt Gabrielle ran a small motel so Mom started helping her out. Aunt Gabrielle finally moved on, tired of the hotel, and Mom took over.

Sometimes it was scary, those early years, with the riffraff that came through, but scariest of all were Mom's revolving boyfriends.

By the time Michael hit seventh-grade, Mom'd had five lovers. The first was David Kole, a tyrannical bastard. Michael hated him on sight and made sure Asher never went near him. But David only stayed for a few months and then came Adam Willis, who seemed kind—until he showed up drunk and slapped Michael across the face. Mom ended things instantly.

Mom took a year long break from dating until she met Bruce Johnson and he swept her off her feet. Michael felt odd around Bruce, like there was something whispering to him, something he needed to hear but couldn't; he kept Asher well away from Bruce. Then Bruce died in a car wreck and Michael breathed a sigh of relief. But on Bruce's heels came Cole Potter.

Around Mom, Cole was a darling, the kindest man to ever live. Around Michael, Cole was a predator who said he'd hurt Asher if Michael told. So Michael didn't tell. Cole whispered to him what a beautiful boy he was, with his eyes and lips and face. Michael did anything Cole commanded, no matter how sick it made him, terrified that Cole's attention would turn to Asher.

Michael swore to himself that if Cole ever even looked at Asher wrong he'd kill the son of a bitch.

Cole was picked up for drunk driving and Michael never heard from him again. It was years before he slept peacefully.

And after Cole came William Davis. He didn't stay long and he was the best of Mom's boyfriends.

Mom finally decided to focus solely on the motel and her boys. The motel wasn't doing so well and Mom confided in Michael that she figured it'd go under soon. Mom had fallback money, so they'd be fine while she searched for another job, but the motel was all Michael knew.

School wasn't easy but neither was it hard. Michael was firmly ensconced in the middle and that's where he planned to stay. Asher and Mom were his world and he wouldn't put his whole attention on schoolwork while he had Asher to look after.

Michael couldn't fire a gun(or rather, he could, since anyone can, but he never had) and he only knew the rudimentary basics of self-defense, but he was good with knives. He practiced whenever he could, after Ash and Mom had gone to bed, in an old storage closet he'd found. It was unused, fairly big, and out of the way. He'd swiped a few steak knives from the kitchen and threw them, over and over, until he hit the bull's-eye four out of five times.

By seventh grade, he counted himself happy. He had Mom and Asher, all he needed—yet he wanted more. He wanted Dad and a dog and baseball and the memory of Cole's hands out of his head. He wanted his innocence back but knew he'd never get it.

-

When the woman first appeared to him, Michael thought nothing of it. He was dreaming of his life before, with Mom and Dad and baby Ash, back in Mississippi. He figured she was someone his parents had known, back then.

But she appeared again and again and again, popping up somewhere in each of his dreams for a month. On his twelfth birthday she spoke to him, kneeling in front of him and meeting his eyes. **_Michael_**, she said, **_I'd like to make a deal with you. I can give you your father back, heal your family, protect Asher for the rest of his life. But only if you come to me on your eighteenth birthday and agree to be mine forever._**

It was a dream and something told him to disbelieve everything out of her mouth. So he said no. She appeared and asked four more times, wearing a different face each night, but her eyes were always blacker than a midnight sky. He never told her what she wanted to hear and he never thought about her while awake.

And then one day, a Wednesday, while he was eating lunch outside at school, she sat next to him. Sank down beside him and smiled, eyes darker than dark.

"Hello, Michael," she said softly, reaching out to touch his face. He jerked away, scrambled to his feet, glared at her.

"Michael," she cooed up at him, "I want you to be mine." She patted the ground beside her and said, "Sit."

He backed away swiftly, eyes narrowed. Her black gaze followed him and her mouth still smiled.

Later that day, Mom put him in charge of the desk and Asher while she went to pick something up at Aunt Gabrielle's. He was heating up Asher's supper when the bell dinged, so he headed to the front.

A man stood there, young, maybe twenty, if that. He didn't seem threatening—but then, neither had Cole at first. The guy had short dark blond hair, huge hazel eyes, a face Cole would have called beautiful.

"King or two queens?" Michael asked, meeting the guy's gaze.

"Two queens," he answered and something moved outside the window, so Michael looked out it. Another guy, leaning against a cool car.

Michael wanted to raise an eyebrow but Mom had told him not to antagonize guests, so he just muttered, "Yeah, I'll bet." He flicked his eyes back to the guy in time to see him smirk. "How long do you want the room?" Michael asked.

"A week at the moment," Blond Guy answered. "But it may become more."

Michael nodded, consulting Mom's notes; the computers had crashed on Monday and wouldn't be fixed till Saturday. "Cash or credit?"

"Cash," Blond Guy said, pulling out a thick wallet.

"Two hundred," Michael calculated, glancing up to see how Blond Guy would take it.

"Okay," he responded, handing over ten twenties.

The other opened the door and stepped in. Michael grabbed the key and handed it to Blond Guy, who tossed it over his shoulder. "Room ten," Michael said, trying to hide his nervousness.

The other guy was _huge_. Like, _Goliath_ huge.

"I'll meet you there, Sam," Blond Guy said. "I've just gotta settle the bill." He turned slightly and grinned. Sam, apparently, nodded and went back out. Blond Guy looked over Michael and said, "How 'bout you write a receipt so I can go lay down—'cause I am _beat_—and the little guy back there won't burn himself on the stove?"

Michael spun around, dread pulsing through him, and—damn, Blond Guy was right. "Asher!" Michael barked and his little brother froze in the act of reaching for the pot of boiling water. "Get away from there!"

"It's about to spill!" Asher called back, pouting. "I's just tryin' to help."

Michael sighed and hurried over. He poured the box of noodles into the pot and turned the burner down. "Go back to your drawing, Ash," he said, ruffling Asher's hair. "You're not big enough to cook yet."

Asher pouted up at him and stomped back to the table, where his pencils were spread everywhere. He picked up the purple one and jabbed it against the paper. Michael watched him for a few heartbeats before heading back to the front, where Blond Guy still waited.

"Nice job," Blond Guy said.

Michael ignored him and scribbled a receipt on a scrap of paper. "Have a nice stay," he muttered and turned, going back to his most important job—watching out for Asher. He didn't watch Blond Guy leave but heard the door open and close.

Ash refused to acknowledge him for a few minutes, but Michael refilled his cup of Kool Aid and asked about his picture. Ash explained at great length that Michael was the blue warrior, he was the green one, and Momma was the purple one. They all defended the Earth—a giant brown smudge in the upper right corner—from the alien invaders—gray specks in the bottom left corner.

Michael praised his drawing and finished the macaroni, serving it to them both just as Mom came in. "Anything happen while I was out?" she asked breathlessly, nearly dropping a box bigger than Ash onto the table.

"We have new guests," Michael said, portioning out some macaroni for her, too.

"Thank you, baby," she sighed, taking the bowl and spoon from him, sitting down next to Asher. "Which room?"

"Ten." He plopped down across from her, next to the box, and dug into his macaroni.

In between gulps of his food and that god-awful red stuff he drank like water, Asher explained his picture again. Mom exclaimed over it, telling Ash how proud she was, and then Asher pushed it across the table, towards Michael.

Michael reached out, laying his fingers over the brown smudge representing Earth. "For me?" he asked and Asher beamed. "Thanks, Ash," he murmured and then Ash started telling Mom about school.

-

By the time Michael crawled into bed, just after eleven, he'd remembered the black-eyed woman who reminded him of Cole. And the memories of Cole and Cole's hands and Cole's ruining eyes and Cole's belt and Cole's dick wouldn't leave him be. The memories haunted his dreams that night, but the worst nightmare of the lot was the one where Cole turned his attention to Asher and Michael couldn't stop him. Could only watch and beg and scream.

He woke crying just after three. He stared up at the ceiling and pictured Cole's face, his grin and his smirk, his smile when Michael did everything said.

"Mikey?" Ash's small voice called across the room. "Are you okay?"

"'m'fine, Ash," he responded. "Go back to sleep."

"I had a bad dream," Asher said. "You were taken by a bad lady and I screamed and screamed, but you never came back."

Michael felt his stomach clench. "This bad lady—what did she look like?"

"I don' 'member," Ash answered, voice hazy like he was fading. "But her eyes…" a yawn cut him off and the rest was muttered. "… were black…"

He dropped back into sleep. Michael stared at the ceiling for a minute more before slipping out of his bed and padding to Asher's. He watched his little brother for a while, Asher's chest rise and fall, and then he crawled under the covers with him. When he finally drifted off, it was to the lullaby of Ash breathing.

-

When Michael got back from school Thursday afternoon, Blond Guy was rummaging in the car's trunk, muttering. Michael stepped closer because, after all, it _was_ a pretty sweet ride, even if he'd never been particularly interested in automobiles. He preferred horses and sea monsters.

"What kind is it?" he asked and Blond Guy straightened, looked over. Michael froze, gazing up at him.

Unless Blond Guy had aged about five years in the course of one night, this man wasn't him.

"Dean!" someone called and NotBlond Guy(Dean?) glanced towards the room. Michael followed his gaze and Sam stood in the doorway. "Found it yet?"

"No," Dean called back.

Sam slipped back into the room and closed the door.

Dean looked back at Michael and said, "1967 Chevy Impala."

Michael just stared up at him and asked, "What?"

"My car," Dean told him, shutting the trunk. "It's a '67 Chevy Impala." He grinned down at Michael, strode around the car to the driver's door, opened it, hit 'lock,' and gently closed it.

"So…" Michael began and Dean paused, raising an eyebrow. Michael licked his lips and continued, striving to hide his nervousness, "Who's that other guy? The one that checked in?"

Dean laughed and said, "My brother."

For some reason Michael would never be able to fully fathom, he didn't believe Dean.

-

Mom was home the entire time that night. She was in a good mood, laughing and smiling, talking about the old days, before Dad left. Asher asked question after question, eager for any story of the man he'd idolized. Michael listened, wondering what had happened. Either she'd won the lottery or she'd met a guy—Michael hoped fervently it was the former.

After Asher settled himself in front of the TV, Michael helped Mom straighten out the notes about guests and what needed to be taken care of, cleaned or fixed.

"So," he asked, "what happened today?"

She looked over at him and set down the pen. "I stopped by Wal-Mart on the way home," she said, still smiling. "And there was this guy—I couldn't reach the paper towels I usually get, so he grabbed 'em for me."

Mom's taste in men sucked, so Michael had his doubts.

"We talked; he likes the same movies and music, and he loves kids." Mom sounded exited and she gestured wildly with her hands; Michael's stomach sank.

"You have a date?" he asked, trying to mask how he really felt.

"Yeah," she answered, looking young again, like back in Jackson. "For Saturday night."

"What's his name?" Michael jabbed down his pen hard, copying over some pencil scribblings of Abigail, Mom's 'assistant,' translating her notes into English.

"James Nickols," she laughed. Michael had never seen her act so girlish, so like the kids he went to school with.

"I hope you have a good time," he lied, gently putting down the pen and standing.

"I know you've hated my boyfriends, Mikey," she said, reaching out to touch his shoulder, smiling gently. "But this one—I think he's different. I think you'll get along great."

Michael nodded, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

"I'm sure you're right, Mom," he murmured and walked down the hall to his room. He changed out of jeans and into boxers, then slipped beneath the covers, hoping that he'd have normal dreams, that Cole wouldn't haunt him.

-

_"I offer you a choice, Michael, darling," she said, eyes black and cold. She wore the same form she had at school, thin and short with blond hair shorn close. "You are starting to annoy me." _

_He glared at her then glanced around the empty field. They stood in the middle, with dead trees in the distance and a falling down fence along the edge. "So fuck off," he told her, backing up a little. "Leave me alone." _

_She laughed coldly and stepped forward, following him. "I can't do that, Mikey. You see, you're a missing piece, you and Ash. Either of you will do, but you're the one we want. You're the one full of pain and rage—you're the one who could hate. So, if you agree to join us of your own free will when you turn eighteen, I'll leave. You'll never see me again. But if you don't…" Her voice trailed off and her smile darkened. "If you don't, Michael Springs, then I will take Asher. I will break him, mold him, turn him, and make him mine." _

_Michael froze, anger and fear warring in him. He never looked away from her blank, black eyes. He could feel something inside him, straining and stretching, trying to rise and explode. _

_"Ah, yes," she murmured, stepping toward him. "You have a lot in common. Older brothers always do, but the two'a ya—so easy." She reached out and he didn't move back, didn't try to avoid her touch. Her hand lightly brushed his cheek and she leaned down to whisper, "Think on it, Michael. You or Asher. You willingly or him stolen in the night, broken and shattered, changed into something that has no memory of you at all." _

_She smiled once more and faded away. He stood alone for a long moment before sinking down onto his knees and falling backward, staring up at the midnight sky. He knew it was a dream, but also—he had spoken to her while awake. She had told him she wanted him, for whatever reason— _

_"She's evil, you know." _

_The voice sounded from out of the darkness and he jerked up, looked around. A large form plopped next to him and Michael recognized him. "Dean?" he asked blankly. _

_"After a fashion," Dean answered. "See, this is one of those things where neither of us is awake. You're searching for someone, anyone, to help you—you're in danger, but more importantly? **Asher** is in danger. Baby brother. If it had just been you that bitch wants, I wouldn't be here." Dean smiled and Michael could see the razor-edge, but Dean wasn't dangerous to him. Somehow, Michael just knew it. _

_"What do I do?" Michael gazed up at him, taking in everything—the short dark blond hair, the weary hazel eyes, the face Cole would have called beautiful and Michael called gorgeous, broad shoulders, beat up leather jacket—Dean was dangerous. Very dangerous. _

_Michael didn't much care for reading, but there was one book Aunt Gabrielle gave him, called Shane. He'd been leery of it at first, but then Asher begged him to read aloud. After he started, Michael couldn't stop. He devoured the book in one go and then reread it. It was the only thing he perused over and over and over again. _

_Dean reminded him sharply of Shane. Coiled and waiting and deadly. _

_"When you wake up," Dean said, "you have to make a choice. Do what that bitch asks, give yourself to keep Asher safe, trust her word or—talk to me and Sammy and Jake. Trust us, let us know everything she's said, how long she's been talking to you." Dean's eyes were serious and his voice kind. He didn't talk down to Michael like most adults. Only Mom and Aunt Gabrielle spoke to him like Dean all the time. _

_"You have to trust us," Dean told him, meeting his gaze straight on. "Can you do that?" _

_"I don't understand." Michael looked up, knew the fear was plain on his face. "How can you help?" _

_Dean's smile was gentle, kind. Michael stopped worrying when he said, "It's what we do." _

-

Michael skipped school on Friday. He saw Asher to his homeroom and then hurried back to the hotel. He waited until Mom was busy at the office and headed to room ten, wondering if Dean remembered.

He could hear low voices through the door but couldn't make out the words. It took a minute but he worked up the courage and softly tapped on the door. He waited, heart in his throat, and when the door opened, it was Blond Guy smiling at him.

"Dean didn't think you'd come," Blond Guy said and moved back, letting Michael slip in. "Figured you'd write it off as a dream, like he almost did."

"If Asher's in danger and the three of you can help," Michael told him, swinging his gaze to include Dean and Sam, "I'll do anything."

Sam sank down onto one of the beds, the bed closer to the door, a few feet from Michael. Blond Guy shut the door and then walked around Michael, settling next to Sam. Dean stayed standing, his gaze on Michael.

"I've never communicated with someone in a dream before," Dean said. "And I pretty much remember nothing. I don't know how or why, if the power came from my end or yours." Dean paused and his eyes flicked to Sam and Blond Guy. "It seems that power hit every member of my family, so it wouldn't be shocking. But—from what I remember—that chick was seriously evil, so clearly there's something about you."

Michael began after almost a minute of silence. "She wants me to agree to join her on my eighteenth birthday. Something about power, how me and Asher are wanted, but they'll only take one. If I agree, they'll leave Asher alone. If I don't, they'll take him and…" Her words echoed in his head and he continued softly, "Break him, mold him, turn him, and make him theirs."

Dean nodded and licked his lips, glanced over at Blond Guy. "Jake," he asked, "do you remember anything about this?"

Jake—Blond Guy—shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said and Michael looked at him. "I focused on Dean—" he bit off the rest of the words and lowered his gaze. "I could have ended everything—I had the strength. But I didn't." He laughed softly, bitterly. Michael was at a loss, had no clue what Jake was talking about, what was expected of him now. Jake added, "I know where it ends, or rather, where it did before."

Dean looked at Sam and Michael followed his gaze. "Your vision, Sammy—did you recognize the place?"

Sam shook his head. "I've never been there before. It looked like a sanctuary, one of those old churches. But it was…" his voice trailed off and he closed eyes, clearly searching for the words. Michael wondered what he'd fallen into, if he'd lost his mind—but that woman's eyes as she spoke of Asher… Michael couldn't leave the outcome to chance. Not with _Ash_ on the line.

Asher was his brother. Michael would do _anything_ to keep him safe. And if it came down to giving himself to that woman and whatever cause—so be it.

Sam opened his eyes. "It was worse than Sue Anne's altar, even worse than Meg's. It was… dark, seriously dark. Like whatever worshiped there fed on pain and fear and despair. Meg held—Asher, is it?—by the arm, a wicked looking dagger at his throat." Sam's gaze focused on Michael and Michael couldn't look away. He was held there, by the rage he saw in Sam's eyes.

The rage was deep and dangerous, swelled and leapt; Sam's eyes flickered between green and black, and Michael jerked away, tossed himself against the door. Dean's exclamation of shock filled the room, but Michael couldn't move. He tried turning his head and he saw Jake and Dean also frozen, Dean by the bathroom door and Jake held to the wall near Michael.

The thing controlling Sam's body laughed and Michael shivered, suddenly terrified.

"Let go of my brother, you son of a bitch," Dean snarled, straining against the invisible bond. "Get your hell-smoke outta him."

"Or what?" NotSam asked. "You gonna glare me to death?" He laughed again, a sound that sent a thrill of fear—and a touch of anger—down Michael's back.

"I didn't come here for a fight," NotSam said, standing up. He straightened to Sam's full height and turned his head, looking down into Michael's eyes. "You're a brave boy, Mikey. Courageous and strong—you took everything Cole gave and never snapped. You're the kind we seek out, the kind we want. Your brother—oh, Asher has the raw power, leashed deep in his soul. But he's not angry, he doesn't hate." NotSam turned back to look at Dean, softly stepped over and stood next to him. "Dean, here? _He's_ the kind of anger we want. It singes the very air around him."

Dean clenched his jaw and met Michael's gaze_. Hold on_, Michael read in his eyes. _We'll get out of this. Just trust me. _And then he _heard_ Dean's voice in his head. **_Trust me, Michael._**

Michael nodded.

NotSam lowered his head, placed his lips a finger's-breadth from Dean's. "My father has made a handful of mistakes in all his centuries. Two of them stand in this room." NotSam laughed and moved forward, licking Dean's lips. Michael closed his eyes but still heard NotSam say, "He should have taken you, Dean. That night he killed Mary, he should have taken you."

Dean made a small noise; Michael squeezed his eyes tighter shut and started listing every horse breed he could remember.

His eyelids flew open at Jake's voice.

"Stop."

The tone _had_ to be obeyed. Something threaded through it. NotSam froze where he stood, one hand tangled in Dean's close-cropped hair, the other unzipping Dean's jeans.

Michael wanted to look away but to his shame, he couldn't. The way Dean's head was lowered, face blank, eyes closed—Michael wondered if that's how he himself had looked. If so… he still couldn't forgive Cole.

NotSam turned around, furious. "How dare you command me?" he hissed and Jake laughed. It was darker than NotSam's laugh had been. Scarier.

Michael wished he'd gone to school.

In the corner of is eyes, he saw Jake move, so he turned his head slightly. Jake stepped forward slowly, leisurely. "How dare I?" he asked mockingly. "Because I can."

"You gave up the power!" NotSam denied. "We all felt it. You don't have the strength or the claim anymore."

Jake smiled. It wasn't a nice smile and Michael closed his eyes again, unable to comprehend what he'd stepped into the middle of.

He could close his eyes to the sight but he couldn't stop up his ears. Jake kept talking, his voice getting lower and deeper, darker—"Some things remain still, demon. Some things will always remain. It's in the blood, at the core—my mother wove me with blood and fire, threaded the power along my skin. And I can cast some of it from me, but _never_ all of it."

"How—" NotSam gasped; Michael heard choking, and Jake chuckled.

"You pissed me off," Jake explained. "Now, tell me—how long have you been possessing Sam?"

NotSam snarled and Michael shouted the history of the Morgan breed in his mind. He pretended he was anywhere else, far from room ten and this fight.

Suddenly, he was released, his entire body back in his control. He dropped to the floor and just breathed for a moment then opened his eyes and looked. Jake and NotSam were locked against each other, eyes glowing—NotSam's black and Jake's a pale amber.

Michael stared past them to Dean, who was hunched slightly, eyes wide, breathing shallowly. Slowly he straightened and stepped forward, to where Jake and NotSam battled.

Around Dean, something built on the air, something _sang_—it shrieked and Michael cried out, covered his ears, but the sound grew, it echoed in his mind, it would not be ignored and could not be denied. Tears pooled in his eyes, slid down his face, and the shriek got _louder_.

By the time Dean knelt beside him and pulled Michael into his arms, Michael was sobbing uncontrollably. His head pounded and whirled, and he thought he might throw up. Dean whispered and shushed him, threaded his fingers through Michael's hair.

Only one thought filled Michael's head. "How's your brother?"

Dean stilled; his arms tightened around Michael. "He's fine," Dean muttered.

"Check on him," Michael insisted. "You need to be sure he's okay."

"Alright," Dean said. He extracted himself from around Michael and gently let go. Michael let himself fall over backwards. He stared at the ceiling trying not to think. Dean said something unintelligible and then murmured, "Sammy."

Sam said something back and Michael froze. A part of him somehow knew it was actually Sam, not NotSam, but he still trembled at the sound of his voice.

"It'll be alright now," Jake whispered, crawling up beside Michael. Michael raised his head a little. Jake was beat; he moved slowly, surely, and lowered himself to the floor like he was old.

"Are you okay?" Michael asked, worried.

Jake started to nod but paused, his gaze assessing. "I will be," he answered. "After about forty-eight hours of sleep. And they'll be fine, too. But the real question is: how're _you_ doin'?"

Michael closed his eyes and started at his head, internally worked his way down. "I ache," he replied honestly. "All over. But I'll be fine if I get a good night's sleep."

"Good to hear," Dean said, standing and stretching. "Go to your room and start workin' on that. We'll touch base tomorrow, okay?"

Michael rolled over and pushed himself up to his knees, slowly stood. "But that thing inside Sam?" he asked. "Where'd it go?"  
"It's gone," Jake responded. "Completely."

Michael glanced over, seeking reassurance. "Forever?" He winced when he realized he'd sounded younger than Ash.

"Yeah." Sam's voice was hoarse and weary. "Jake killed it." He almost laughed and Michael turned his head slightly. "Unfortunately, it wasn't the one after you."

Michael closed his eyes and considered sobbing again. Dean reached out and lightly touched his shoulder. "Let's get you to bed, Michael," he murmured. "We'll talk again tomorrow, after we've all rested. Okay?"

Without opening his eyes, Michael nodded, swallowing back tears.

"I'll walk you to your room," Jake said and Michael opened his eyes.

Dean held out a hand and Jake took it; one pull and Jake stood. He swayed for a second, one hand held to his head, but righted himself and stilled. "You okay?" Dean asked and Jake answered softly, "For the most part."

Michael watched them have a silent conversation for a few heartbeats; finally Dean said, "Get him to bed safely, okay?" Jake smiled.

-

It was a deep, solid, nightmare-free sleep. Michael dreamed of Dad and Ash and Mom, of Aunt Gabrielle and Grandma, of his hopes for the future and his triumphs in the past.

No one with black eyes appeared. No deal was offered. He slept soundly and woke wrapped around Asher.

"Ash?" he mumbled and felt Asher nod against his chest. "What're you doin' in m'bed?"

"I didn't want you gettin' bad dreams," Ash whispered. "You didn't, right?"

"No," Michael answered. "I didn't."

Michael slowly pulled himself from bed, wanting a bath more than anything ever. He didn't check in with Mom, didn't let her know he was up, didn't pause for a moment. He turned the water on scalding and closed his eyes, hoping to soak out the memories. He scrubbed every inch of his skin twice over, trying to convince himself it had all been a dream. An odd, fanciful dream, brought on by some weird chick and three men too gorgeous to be real.

But he knew. He _knew_. And now he couldn't unknow.

With a sigh he lunged up, stepped out of the tub. He toweled off and slipped on an old, ragged T-shirt two sizes too big and faded jeans he'd just about outgrown.

Mom, Abigail told him when he stopped by the office, had a meeting this morning she couldn't get out of. But she'd be back by one and she expected answers.

"Is her date still on?" he asked finally, checking the time: just past nine.

Abigail shrugged. Michael headed for the kitchen, famished. After breakfast, he decided, he'd go to room ten and learn more than he'd ever wanted to know.

-

Standing before the door, it was much harder to raise his hand and knock. He closed his eyes, swallowed, counted to fifteen, then thirty. Right before his knuckles touched the wood, the door opened. Jake stood there, looking less tired. His eyes were clear and his short hair ruffled. "Mornin," he said and yawned. "How'd you sleep?"

"Pretty good," Michael answered, unable to keep from smiling in reply.

Jake stepped back and Michael entered. Dean sat in the room's one chair; the bathroom door was shut and the water running.

"It's his third shower since yesterday," Dean told Michael. Jake walked past him and sank onto the bed closest to the door, stretching out along it. "He still doesn't feel clean."

Michael looked from one to the other. "What happened yesterday?" he asked.

Dean sighed. "My mom died when I was four. Sam was just a baby. She was killed by a demon, a real nasty son of a bitch. Our dad decided to seek vengeance, so he became a hunter, a warrior on a crusade against the darkness. He trained me and Sam to hunt as well, ruined us for basically anything else. But Sam…" Dean shook his head. "Sam never liked hunting. He wanted normal. So when he was eighteen he left for college. And for four years, he had his normal. His safety. Then the demon killed his girlfriend, the same way it killed Mom." Dean stood and rolled his shoulders, walked over and bent down, looked Michael straight in the eye. "The thing that possessed Sammy is one of many. Not the one that's been visiting you in your sleep or the one that killed Mom. Why it was here—well, we don't know yet. Sam… he hasn't spoken since Jake took you to your room." Dean sighed and stood back up.

Jake jumped in. "I'll tell him where I fit."

Dean glanced his way and Michael followed his gaze. "You sure?" Dean asked.

Jake nodded. "He's a part of this now. Always was, I guess, since—Meg?—that girl's been in his dreams from before we met up." Jake met Michael's eyes and tried to smile. "You've fallen into quite a mess, kiddo. It's not gonna be easy."

"I'll do anything for Asher. Anything." Michael made his voice as serious as he possibly could. He put all of his determination, all of his love, into the words.

"Okay," Dean said.

And Jake began. Michael sat down on the foot of the bed and faced Jake, listened avidly with wide eyes. It was hard to believe but he _knew_ every word was true. Marisol and Dean's blood and the power of a god cast away. An unhappy childhood with little love, an environment that should have turned him evil but didn't. Michael listened silently, watching the emotions play across Jake's face. With his back to Dean and the bathroom, he was able to forget everything but Jake, Jake's voice, and the words.

So when Jake finished, ending with his tale with casting away the majority of his power, Michael fell back into his body with shock. He realized that Dean had settled next to him and Sam sat cross-legged on the other bed.

"So," Michael said, "you're Dean's son?"

"Yahtzee," Jake told him, almost smiling.

"So how do I fit in?" Michael asked. "_Where_ do I fit? I'm not the son of a hunter or a demon—I'm not special at all!"

"Michael," Sam said. Michael looked over and tried to avoid meeting Sam's eyes, but he said, "Michael, _look_ at me." Slowly, Michael raised his gaze. Only when Michael met his eyes straight on did Sam say, "You feel it. You felt it in this room when Jake battled the demon. You felt it when you first met Jake, then Dean. You've felt it your entire life but never had a name for it."

Michael tried looking away but he couldn't. Sam's eyes were pulling him in, telling him a truth he could never again deny.

"For normal people," Sam said, "demons have no limitations. They can enter dreams and do what they like. But for us, those who're something more… they can visit our dreams, but they can't change anything. Nothing at all. She could talk to you, but that's it. The next move is yours."

"That demon," Michael asked, "the one that possessed you? What'd it want?"

Sam looked away, down at his clasped hands. "To stack the deck," he answered softly. "To take you and Dean and Jake out of the equation. It entered me when I first stepped in this room, took over so suddenly I had no chance to fight back. If Dean hadn't been mostly asleep, he'd have caught on instantly." Sam paused and licked his lips then sighed. "I was lazy. I should have been prepared." He scoffed. "We came here because of a vision I had, a warning of danger. And I lowered my guard."

"Sam," Jake interrupted, "it's not just your fault. I should have sensed something."

Michael glanced up to Dean. "If all three of us had died, what would have happened to Asher and Mom?"

Sam replied, "Your mom may have been left alone. But most likely, they'd kill her. Then they'd take Asher and break him, reforge him as a weapon for their side."

Michael closed his eyes and longed for the days when all he had to worry about was Mom finding out about Cole. But he put all his focus on Asher, on the little brother he'd kill and die for, and opened his eyes.

"So now what do we do?"

-

At a quarter till one, they sent him back to the office. He hadn't participated much in the discussion, just listened. The words flew quickly as they offered and discarded suggestions.

Michael asked at one point why the demon revealed stuff to them, shared details from Sam's dream.

"It was playing," Sam explained. "Cat and mouse. Dangling hope in your face and then yanking it away."

"But why?" Michael winced when he realized he sounded like some spoiled kid.

"For fun," Dean said and Sam continued with, "It's what demons do."

So now Michael had to wait. They'd ward Michael and Asher's room, and room ten, for sure. Then the rest of the hotel to the best of their ability.

"Don't worry," Dean told him before he left. "We'll get the bitch."

Michael didn't ask him to promise. He knew that Dean couldn't.

As he closed the door behind him, he heard Sam ask, "Should we call Dad?" He didn't stay to hear the answer.

Mom returned at five after one. Michael hadn't come up with any excuse, any explanation for skipping school and going to sleep. If he said he'd felt sick, Mom would ask why he didn't tell her. If he said he'd been tired, she'd ask why he hadn't slept the night before. He'd never cut school. Ever. He'd always been responsible, refrained from causing trouble.

He hoped that would work in his favor.

Michael went to the front office and heard the tail-end of Mom and Abigail's conversation.

"… till January," Mom was saying. "Then they'll buy it out."

"For a good price, right?" Abigail asked as Michael walked in.

"Yeah," Mom answered and then caught sight of him. First she smiled and then her eyes narrowed.

Abigail followed Mom's gaze and nodded. "I'll go see if the computer guy is on his way." She left on Mom's "Okay."

Michael shuffled his way to her, head low. "Hi, Momma," he said softly, lifting his eyes for a second before ducking his head again.

Mom put her hand under his chin and raised his head. He met her eyes then looked past her. "Michael," she said, "look at me." She waited until he obeyed before continuing. "Baby, what happened yesterday?"

He licked his lips, searching for words but nothing came. He stared up into her eyes and felt shame—he'd never disappointed her before. Never.

"I'm sorry, Momma," he finally told her, soft and sincere. "I was just… I felt really bad and I didn't want to bother you."

"Michael." Her voice was even and kind. She didn't believe him but she wasn't exploding. Now he felt even worse.

When he didn't elaborate, Mom sighed. "Alright, Michael. Go to your room. I'll see you at dinner."

He nodded silently and her hand dropped. He turned and shuffled out, down the hall to his and Asher's room. Her hurt at being lied to and disappointment in his behavior followed.

Michael wanted to rush back in, to be scooped up in her arms, to spill everything and let Momma handle it. But he couldn't do that. Mom _couldn't_ handle it, and she'd kill herself trying. Dean and Sam and Jake were able, though. And if they failed—then no one could succeed.

_You could end all this, you know_, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. It sounded an awful lot like him and he shook his head, trying to shut it up. _C'mon, Michael. If you say yes, Mom and Ash'll both be fine, for the rest of their lives. You'll have the strength to take care of them till they die. All it takes is one word. Just… one… word. _

Michael threw himself on his bed and pulled a pillow over his head. If he ignored the voice, the lying voice that sounded like him, it'd go away. It _had_ to go away.

Sam told him that all demons could do was talk. That the next move was his. The voice could talk and talk, but Michael would not respond, not with anything but silence.

Finally, with drying tears on his cheeks and a pillow pulled tight on his head, Michael drifted into an uneasy sleep.

When he dreamed, though he had no memory of it upon waking, it was of blood and fire and a sharp silver knife.

-

Dinner was quiet. Asher chattered on about digimon and Michael ate his hot dogs silently. Mom listened to Ash and asked questions whenever he paused. Her disappointment beat at Michael and it stung. If Asher noticed the strain between them, he didn't let on. Michael was glad.

Michael stood after he finished and picked up his plate, softly put it in the sink. He turned back to face the table, looked at Mom. "May I be excused?" he asked.

She nodded but said nothing. When he passed behind Ash, he ruffled his little brother's hair.

-

Michael waited until Ash was settled in bed and Mom left for her date. He faked sleep when Mom kissed his brow and whispered, "I love you." He lay still, breathing evenly, and moved only when the door closed behind her. He slipped out from beneath the covers, out of bed, and padded over to the window, watched Mom drive away.

Once she was out of the parking lot, headed down the road, he left his room and hurried to room ten, barefoot and pulling on a sweatshirt. He slipped the spare key into the lock and turned; the door opened with a soft click and he slid between it and the doorway, pulled it closed behind him.

Michael froze when he felt a cold blade against his neck. "It's me," he whispered. "Michael."

The blade was taken away and the light flicked on; Dean stood next to him, in boxers and a shirt, the dagger held in his fist. "Don't sneak into a room like a thief in the night, 'kay, kiddo?" Dean asked gruffly.

Eyes on the knife, Michael swallowed and nodded, shoving down fear. Then he looked around and noticed they were alone. "Where's Sam and Jake?"

"We've been working in shifts," Dean answered, walking back to the bed and sliding the knife under the pillow. "It's my turn to rest. Jake took my Impala and went to the library; Sam's warding the south edge of the property."

"Library's closed," Michael observed. Dean smirked but said nothing. "Oh," Michael realized. "Right."

"Michael." Dean's voice was serious as he sank onto the bed. "Why are you here?"

"Are you really gonna help us out of the goodness of your heart?" Michael's voice was just as serious and he met Dean's eyes straight on. He stayed by the door, poised to flee at any second.

"Oh," Dean said and for a second he looked old, world-weary and worn. "Michael." He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Is that what the demon meant? Someone hurt you?" Dean's voice deepened, developed a razor-edge. His eyes, when he looked back at Michael, were cold, demanding. "Who was it?"

Michael shivered and backed up a step, hit the door. "He's gone," Michael hurried to say. "For a while now."

"What did he do?"

Looking at Dean's face, Michael couldn't lie. Any mask he pulled on would crumble beneath Dean's gaze. So Michael told the truth. The naked, unvarnished truth. The first time he ever said the words aloud, they flowed without pause, tumbling and tripping over each other, and his voice trembled beneath their weight. But he spoke until he had no more words, until he could look away and try his façade again. His words hung between them, his tale of Cole and pain. The fury beat uselessly inside him and he closed his eyes, trying to contain himself.

"Michael," Dean said, voice low and gentle. "It wasn't your fault. And you're not weak. You're nowhere near the vicinity of weak. You're strong and brave." Michael couldn't look away from Dean's eyes, couldn't do anything but listen. The words hovered around him, seeped into his skin, settled in his blood. "Do you hear me, Michael? You're not weak. And you're not guilty. Only that son of a bitch is guilty here. And one day, if he hasn't already, he will pay in full. Do you understand?"

Michael nodded, tears building behind his eyes. He blinked, trying to stave them off; he'd cried too much in the past few days, more than he ever had before in his entire life. He refused to cry again. He had to be tough, unflappable. Mom and Asher's lives depended on it.

"How do you know?" Michael asked. "What if I sent some kind of signal, told him I wanted it?" He'd wondered that from the beginning, terrified he'd somehow led Cole on.

Dean's eyes darkened slightly. "Did you want it, Michael? Did you enjoy it?"

Michael shook his head and harshly wiped his eyes. "None of it," he said, voice shaky.

"When I was twelve," Dean told him, "I sought out men like Cole. Dad'd been injured, hurt real bad; he couldn't work or hunt for months. I stole what I could, but it wasn't enough. So I began selling instead." He almost smiled and looked away from Michael, down at his hands. He reached back and grabbed the knife, started tossing it from hand to hand. "It wasn't till I was fifteen, though, that a man took what he wanted without paying. I crawled back to our apartment of the month, wondering when I'd feel clean again, when it'd stop hurting." Dean paused and sighed, raising the knife and turning it. The light hit the blade and Dean ran his finger along the edge. "Dad was on a hunt and I told Sam I'd got in a fight with a dozen seniors. After a few days, I'd healed enough to go hunting. I tracked the bastard down." Now Dean did smile. It was a slow smile, satisfied—the cat that killed the canary, stuffed it, and mounted it on the wall. "He never hurt anyone else."

"When did… when'd you stop?" Michael found the courage to ask.

"I was eighteen. I'd perfected pool and poker and picking pockets. It just…" Dean trailed off. "Just wasn't worth it anymore."

Michael pushed off the door and lightly settled on the foot of the bed. He didn't look away from the knife flying through the air, from one of Dean's hands to the other.

"We're going to help you, Michael, 'cause it's what we do. The demon after you, she's one we've met before. I thought we'd killed her, but apparently we didn't. Now, though," and he paused, putting knife down. "Now, we have Jake and all of his knowledge. Now we're startin' to understand just what we are and what we can do. And we'll help you, Mike, because there's nothing else we _can_ do." Dean reached out and ruffled his hair. "We don't want payment. We don't expect payment. We rarely get paid. We learned to live with it a long time ago." Dean smiled again but this time it was kind and warm and Michael had to smile back.

"Now," Dean asked, "was that all?"

"No," Michael responded. "You ever read _Shane_?"

-

Sam came back roughly an hour after Michael convinced Dean to read _Shane_ aloud. He'd fetched the slim novel from his room and checked on Asher, then gone back to room ten. Dean settled against the headboard and Michael curled up beside him. Shane was tiny in Dean's hands and his voice gave life to the words. Michael listened avidly, and the rise and fall of Dean's voice lulled Michael almost to sleep.

The door opened softly and Dean shifted, jostling Michael gently. He wasn't truly awake and couldn't really make out what Dean said, but he did recognize Sam's voice. Dean's voice rumbled and Michael felt arms beneath his knees and back, felt himself lifted. He turned into the strong chest and settled himself.

"I'll be back, Sammy," Dean said, his voice filling Michael's senses. "I just gotta put kiddo in his bed."

Michael couldn't hear Sam's answer and he slipped into sleep to the lullaby of Dean's heartbeat.

-

He woke up cold and shivering. He knew it was just after four in the morning, knew Asher slumbered safely in the other bed, and knew he'd never see Mom again if he didn't move swiftly.

Michael didn't know how he knew, but he was certain beyond all doubt. Had never been so sure of anything in his life.

He could go tell Dean, but what if the demons wanted him to do that? What if it was a trap? Or what if—what if going to hunters got Mom killed?

So Michael pulled on his jeans and a shirt, laced his tennis shoes tight, softly brushed his hand through Asher's hair, whispered, "I love you, little brother," and kissed Asher's forehead.

He stole through their living quarters like a ghost and grabbed five knives from the kitchen. He wasn't sure he what he could do against demons, but the knowledge fluttered just out of reach. And the power hummed in his blood; he could almost hear it singing through his veins. He doubted he'd live out the night as Michael Springs. His body might survive till tomorrow, but his soul, the stuff that made him _Michael_… to save Mom and Ash, he'd sacrifice it all.

At the door of the hotel, he paused, glanced back in the direction of his room. "I love you, Ash," he whispered again. Then he stepped into the night.

-

Later, much later, Michael tried to remember the feeling. He traveled constantly south, one step after another, across lots and roads and yards. He walked around buildings, hopped or climbed fences, following the tug of something he couldn't really label but called _Mom_.

The knives burned in his pockets and he tried not to think. He'd never moved so quickly before; he wasn't growing tired. He could hear Mom's voice in his head, her whispered_ I_ _love you_. It had been _goodbye, goodnight_—but not _literal_, he'd thought. Not her final goodbye.

Right before the sun crossed the horizon, he paused at the edge of a lot. An old warehouse he'd never seen before loomed menacingly from the earth. If he stepped onto the property, it could never be undone. He could never go back.

A part of him feared he wouldn't _want_ to go back. Wouldn't want to be with Mom and Asher after—whatever was gonna happen happened.

He was so focused on the future and his worries that he didn't notice the figures ghosting up behind him till a hand landed on his shoulder.

He jumped and clamped his hand across his mouth to keep from crying out. Michael spun around and felt the person—_man_, a part of him knew—go flying back. It was still dark enough that he couldn't see the guy's face, but he heard the 'oomph' and recognized the voice.

"Dean?"

"Hiya, kiddo," Dean responded and half-chuckled. "Guess we know what your ability is now."

The taller of the two other man-shapes leaned down and offered Dean his hand. Michael turned back to look at the warehouse.

"They have my mom in there," he said. "I have to get her out."

"How do you know?" Sam asked.

Dean crouched next to Michael. "You were gonna rescue her alone? You know how to exorcize demons and counter the forces of darkness?"

Michael lowered his head and examined the dirt, reaching down to trail his fingers through it. "No," he whispered. "But I can't _not_ do something." He wanted to curl up and cry, let them handle it, but he couldn't do that. It was his fault Mom had been taken. So he had to fix the situation.

"We called our dad," Dean told him softly. "He's summoned the troops. If we wait a few days, they'll be here. We'll have an army of hunters."

Jake, his voice a pale echo of Dean's, spoke. "We can't wait a few days." He crouched on Michael's other side. "If Joanna is going to be saved, we have to move before midnight."

"What the hell is going on?" Michael demanded. "Why me? Why Ash? What is so special about us?"

Sam sighed. Michael didn't turn to look, just listened as Sam explained, "To create me—and others like me—a demon infected human women. So I have abilities because of that. It's not natural and the cost of using power my body isn't built for is pain. Every time I use them—on purpose or not—is a migraine." Sam knelt down on Dean's other side. "But Dean—he wasn't mutated by the demon. His powers are innate, inborn. Like yours. Like Asher's. We don't know why or what it means, don't know how you three were picked. I was changed of human meddling, and Jake—well, he was born gifted because of another way entirely. But _you_ were born without any outside forces at all, from what we can tell."

Michael closed his eyes, reaching out for Mom. He felt her, knew she was unhurt. Scared and pissed but not wounded. His eyes flickered open as sunlight bathed the ground before them. "What do we do?"

-

The plan, such as it was, _sucked_. There were too many variables, too many what-ifs and could-bes. But it was all that they had.

Dean and Sam would march straight in, guns blazing. They'd be the distraction. Jake would sneak around back, find another way in. And Michael would stay hidden where he was, safe outside.

"The plan _sucks_," Michael muttered as they crept toward the warehouse. "Like, a _lot_." Dean glanced over his shoulder and chuckled. Michael sank back onto his heels and grumbled, complained quietly about men who annoyingly take over and won't let others help. He waited until all three were out of sight, waited until he heard gunshots and yelling, waited until he _felt_ someone coming up behind him.

Inside him, something snapped and snarled, straining to be free. It beat wings of fire and flame against bars of disbelief—and won. He'd used the power without knowing how, but now the knowledge flooded through him.

A hand fell on his shoulder and then flew off. He leisurely stood and turned, looked at the man and saw the demon inside him.

"Well, Mikey," the demon said with the man's mouth, "looks like we underestimated you." His hand swung out; Michael felt _something_ slap at him. He leaned into it and felt the power flow around him.

"You're the guy Mom had a date with," Michael realized. "You set her up."

NotJames smiled. "Guilty as charged." His eyes flicked from Michael's gaze down his body and back up. "My sister was right about you. You are a delightfully obstinate boy. I'll have fun breaking you."

Cole's memory leapt into Michael's mind, how helpless he'd been, how terrified. His control on the power slipped and NotJames pounced, grabbed Michael's face and neck, squeezed his windpipe. Michael fought, beat at NotJames with ineffectual fists, and tears pooled in the corners of his eyes.

**_Michael?_** he heard from a faraway place. **_Michael!_**

He tried to say "Ash?" but his lips and tongue couldn't form the word. Everything flickered and darkened, and he heard Asher scream his name. But he was just too tired to respond.

Suddenly light bloomed behind his eyes and they flew open. NotJames' face was full of fear and his hands let go of Michael, he backed away, shaky and trembling. "It's not possible," he said. "It's _not possible." _

**_You hurt my brother_**, Asher's voice snarled. The words echoed in the wind, burned—NotJames screamed, his head flew back, and black smoke billowed out of his mouth. It filled the air around him and tried to stream away, but Michael reached for and grabbed it with invisible hands, held it there.

James, free of the demon, fell to the ground in a dead faint.

**_Ash?_** Michael asked. **_How…?_**

**_We're brothers. Friends, right? _**

Michael nodded, keeping a tight grip on the demonsmoke. **_We are._**

**_You needed help. I could feel the bad lady with black eyes taking you away. So I helped. _**

Michael smiled, trying to send his love and pride and gratitude through the link. **_Thank you, Ash,_** he said. **_Thank you_**.

He felt Asher pull away, felt him falling back into sleep. Michael glared up at the demonsmoke, beating uselessly against his hold on it. **_Chain it there_**, Dean whispered in the back of his mind. **_Jake'll deal with it. _**

So Michael did. He closed his eyes and imagined a chain of light, bright and glowing like a star. Once he had a good visual, he opened his eyes and examined the demonsmoke. He picked a portion at random and reached out, used his invisible hands to grab it. He affixed the lightchain around it, bound it tight, wove the demonsmoke through the link of lightchain.

He could hear the demonsmoke screaming, but he ignored it. He could feel exhaustion crawling up his spine, but he shoved it back. He wasn't finished yet; no telling how many Notpeople full of demonsmoke were still in the warehouse.

So he stumbled toward the building. Strength pulsed through him, sent by Asher, and he straightened, lengthened his stride, let anger and love fill him. The doors blew open before him and he saw Sam battling with the blond Notwoman, the air churning around them. Two men lay on the ground, unconscious or dead, he didn't know. Mom was tied up in a corner, hair messy and eyes wide. Dean was in the middle of a—Michael paused and had to laugh. A swordfight. Dean was having a _swordfight_ with some demon-possessed person. And he was doing good. Very good.

But where was—Jake. Jake had his hands on a young man about his age. NotGuy was bucking, trying to throw him off, but Jake held on, tenaciously, and finally NotGuy collapsed. Smoke billowed from his mouth and Jake smiled, that smile Dean had the night before, the smile of the cat that killed the canary. He reached with one hand towards the demonsmoke and splayed the fingers, said something Michael couldn't hear. The demonsmoke turned blood-red and Jake's eyes glowed pale amber. The smoke faded away and Jake hit his knees, panting.

Michael turned back to Dean, who lunged forward and grabbed NotGuy's neck, flung him around and threw him into a wall. "Jake," he called, and wearily Jake rose to his feet. Jake stumbled the few dozen feet to where Dean held NotGuy at bay. Dean supported Jake with one arm wrapped around his shoulders and kept the blade to NotGuy's neck. Jake reached forward, placed both hands on NotGuy's terrified face, and the same events played out.

Then Jake collapsed. Dean fell with him, caught him, cradled his face with his hands. "Jake?" he said, almost panicked. "Jake?"

"Oh, poor boys," blond Notwoman said. Michael jerked around, saw Sam on the ground by her feet, saw her eyes blacker than coal. "So strong, and yet?" she continued, "Not quite strong enough."

She gestured with her right hand; Dean and Jake flew apart, into separate walls. Jake hung limply but Dean struggled, cursing and growling.

"Meg," he snarled, "I'm gonna kill you."

"Oh," NotMeg laughed, "that'd be a neat trick." She smiled brightly at him before turning her attention to Michael. She held out a hand and he lifted off the ground, gently flew to her.

His eyes found Mom's and her struggling increased.

"Joanna," NotMeg said musingly, "you have two amazingly gifted sons. My father was most shocked to learn of them. Power such as theirs should only exist in those my father has touched."

Michael landed in front of her and she caressed his face. "Like Sammy over there," she confided in him. "He'da had powers no matter _what_ Daddy did. Daddy just changed it slightly, made it hurt. Pleasure is always better if tinted by pain." She spun away from him and pranced over to Jake. "Right, Jakie?" she cooed, lifting his head.

His eyes blinked open. Michael glanced over at Dean, who was drooping, eyes drifting shut.

Michael smiled.

Jake's eyes were pale amber and his hands touched NotMeg's face. She shrieked and smoke billowed from her mouth. "Bitch," Jake snarled, sounding exactly like Dean. "You arrogant, murdering _bitch_."

Meg hit the floor with a thump and didn't move. Jake smirked up at the demonsmoke. "I'd tell you to burn in hell," Jake laughed, "but there won't be enough left to send back."

The light pulsed in his eyes and surrounded the demonsmoke, seeped into it, turning it blood-red. Unlike the other two Michael witnessed, this demonsmoke didn't dissipate. It shuddered and screamed and something _sang_ on the air. Jake nodded and the something crescendoed—the demonsmoke exploded and was gone.

Jake fell like a puppet whose strings were cut. He was unconscious before he hit the ground. Dean remained still, passed out against the wall. Sam was breathing shallowly,, barely conscious; Michael quickly hurried to Mom. He _reached_ out, just to be sure… and felt only her. "Momma," he sobbed, scrambling to untie her hands. "Momma."

She wrapped her arms around him. "Baby," she whispered. "Oh, Michael."

-

By noon, they were all safely back at the hotel. Mom gave the cops an anonymous tip about five people in an old warehouse at the edge of town. Once Jake roused himself enough, he dealt with Michael's demonsmoke.

Michael and Mom crawled into bed with Asher, cradled him between them. Mom left a note for Abigail to run things for the day.

Dean, Sam, and Jake all stumbled to room ten, clinging to each other to stay upright. Dean swore they'd explain everything to Mom after everyone had rested.

So Michael let himself fall to sleep, but something still needled at him. In hindsight he realized it was obvious. But right then? It was still all so _new_.

-

When Michael woke up at just after eight in the evening, he was alone in bed. He got up and walked to the kitchen, where Mom and Asher were, along with Dean, Jake, and Sam.

"Coffee or hot chocolate?" Mom asked brightly.

Michael sank into the chair next to Asher and leaned into his little brother. "Chocolate," he decided.

Dean nodded to him. "You did good, kiddo," Dean told him. "I'm proud of you."

Happiness suffused him and the smile almost broke his face. Mom set a mug in front of him and he wrapped his hands around it, linked his fingers.

Something was nagging at him. He couldn't quite make it out but something was very, _very_ wrong.

Dean and Sam and Jake explained everything to Mom—or rather, the parts she needed to know. Michael tried to focus on the feeling of wrongness, to pin it down.

Asher kept leaning into him, warm and real and safe and alive. Kept offering comfort and strength and hope—

"No," Michael moaned, shoving the mug away and sagging down onto the table. The hot chocolate splattered out, burning his arms but he didn't care. The four adults turned to face him, bewildered. "No," Michael whispered over and over. "No no no no no _no_…"

Asher pushed back his chair and stood. Michael didn't look up but he heard Dean's exclamation and Mom's gasp.

"Yes," his little brother's voice laughed. "Jake," NotAsher continued softly, " you killed my children. Two of my sons and my youngest daughter."

"They went after people I cared about," Jake snarled, the words biting. "They signed their own death warrants."

The sound of flesh hitting wood and Dean yelled, "Hey!" Michael flinched but still didn't raise his head. He couldn't bear to see.

Mom was crying now, sobbing and pleading. Soon though, Michael knew, she'd get angry. But she couldn't do anything. Dean and Sam and Jake—they were all tapped out. They'd need at least a week's rest to recharge. Only at their strongest could they defeat the thing in Asher's body. They were too weak.

And the room changed. Michael felt the shift and he raised his head. A man stood in the doorway, looking rough and grizzled. Dangerous. He held a gun in his hand; it was old, Michael could tell. But well cared for.

"Dad?" Dean whispered at the same time NotAsher asked, "Now, where did _that_ come from?"

"Get out of the boy," Dean's father commanded, voice low.

"Or what, Johnny?" NotAsher asked, turning to face him fully. Michael saw his eyes—yellow. Golden. "You gonna shoot this body? He just turned eight. He wants to be an astronaut someday. He loves to draw." NotAsher laughed and Mom sobbed, sagged down. Sam caught her and wrapped his arms around her, started whispering in her ear.

Michael prayed they had a plan. He prayed fervently and sincerely—and John's finger tightened on the trigger.

Dean stood, stepped between the gun and NotAsher. His back to his father, his eyes meeting NotAsher's golden gaze, he said softly, "Take me instead."

NotAsher smiled. "You'd do that? You know Johnny will pull the trigger, no matter the form. He's hated me for too long."

And something niggled the back of Michael's mind. If the demonsmoke hopped bodies, for one moment, probably less than a heartbeat, it'd be free, out in the air.

Michael's eyes flew to Jake, who was wide awake. But Jake was looking over NotAsher's head, at Dean.

NotAsher threw back his head and gasped; demonsmoke poured forth, more than any Michael had seen before.

Dean's eyes pulsed amber and Michael sprang to Asher's side, caught him as he fell. Mom lunged to them, pulled them both into her arms, and Dean's voice, chanting some language Michael didn't know, was all he could hear.

And then silence. Silence louder than anything in the history of ever. Asher trembled in his grip and Mom's arms were tight around them both, and Dean sighed, sank down to his knees. Sam fell beside him, pulled his brother against him. Jake crawled over to them and Sam held him, too.

"What the fuck," John growled, "just happened?"

"It's over," Sam said, lowering his head to rest his chin on Dean. "It's over, Dad."

And Michael pulled Asher closer, swore deep in his soul that nothing would hurt Asher ever again. Nothing. Ever. Again.

-

Michael crawled into his bed about ten minutes after The Demon died. Mom and Asher crawled in beside him, Asher in the middle. They slept for a week and a half. Mom got up sometimes, to see how things were going; the rest of the hunters arrived at some point and most then dispersed, since the fight was over.

Jake, Sam, and Dean also slept that time. John took care of them and settled the bill with Mom.

When Michael finally rolled out of bed, the power hummed in his blood. He could feel Asher—_wholewarmsafe_—and Dean—_protectivesafebroken_—and Jake—_powerfulsafebroken_—and Sam—_dangeroussafewhole_—. He could feel others, like Mom and John, but knew they couldn't do anything. John was a hunter and he could kill—but not them. Not the one's whose blood san to Michael's soul.

Michael showered, washed his hair three times, scrubbed every inch of his skin. He let the water beat down on him, cleansing him, washing away the feel of NotMeg's hand, the stink of demonsmoke in Asher.

Michael threw himself out of the shower and knelt over the toilet, vomited up only bile.

After, he toweled off and put on boxers, an old T-shirt. He crawled back into bed beside Asher and pulled Ash close, silently cried into his hair.

**_It's okay, Mikey_**, Asher told him, snuggling deeper into Michael's embrace**_. I promise. We're safe now. _**

-

Michael waited until Ash decided he was ready to rejoin the world. Nine days after Dean destroyed The Demon, they left their room together, united and hungry. Michael walked just a little in front of Asher, ready to defend him against anything.

Mom was in the kitchen with Dean and a black man. Her face lit up and she hurried over, gave them both hugs. "I love you," she whispered, kissing Asher then Michael. "I love you so much."

Asher smiled at her and kissed her cheek. "I love you, too, Momma." He walked around her and hopped up into a chair.

"Want pop-tarts?" Dean asked and Asher nodded eagerly.

Michael fell onto the chair next to him and Dean gave them both strawberry pop-tarts.

"This is Gordon Walker," Dean introduced the black guy. "He's a friend of Dad's."

Walker nodded and stood. "I'm gonna go see if Ellen needs anything." He smiled at Mom before leaving.

Dean shrugged, looking at Mom, and then focused on Asher. "So, kiddo," he said, "you like to draw?"

-

Dean, Jake, and Sam left on a Friday, a month after they arrived.

Michael watched them drive away sadly. Mom patted his shoulder and ruffled his hair, murmured, "Everything'll be fine, baby," and went back to her life, running the motel—until January, at least.

Jake promised her that the dark would leave them alone now, and she was content to believe it.

But Michael knew. Asher, standing beside him, knew it, too.

Neither of them told Mom. They stood outside in the light rain until the Impala was out of sight and the sun set. Michael could practically feel the storm brewing, smell it in the air. In his blood, the power hummed, sang, called to him—

He could almost feel the noose around his neck, coarse and tight.

The Impala vanished down the road and everything was just getting started.

"They'll be back," Asher said aloud, smiling up at him. "Don't worry, Mike."

Michael threaded his fingers through Asher's hair. "I know, kiddo," he answered and led the way inside.  
-

When he slept that night, Michael dreamed of a sharp silver knife and Asher's life bleeding out onto his hands.


	6. VI In The Genes

**Disclaimer**: Not my characters excepting the ones I thought up. The liar quote is credited _to lonely as a star/yourherodied_

**Warnings**: spoilers for seasons one and two of "Supernatural" and _Devour_; AU; het and slash; character death

**Pairings**: Ellen/Will; Gordon/Cade(Ash)

**Notes**: Also, credit to _fairiekween13_ for reading early parts of this and convincing me it was worth continuing.

* * *

_When he dies, it will be with your name on his lips._

-

When he was younger, Gordon's whole life was Rosalind, his baby sister. He'd been barely a year old when she was born, so he can't remember her as a baby. His first memory is sharing Momma's lap with her, one of Momma's arms around each of them. Momma was crooning a lullaby, rocking them, and Gordon remembers looking at Rosalind, at her tiny face and dark brown eyes, reaching out to touch her curly, silky black hair.

Gordon has no memory that is not somehow tinted by Rosalind. Momma told him to look out for her; Dad told him it was his responsibility as older brother to protect and care for her. So Gordon did. He worshiped the ground she walked on, believed she could do no wrong.

Gordon excelled at sports; Dad took him hunting a few weekends out of the year. Gordon was a good shot but he preferred knives. He kept a small collection under lock and key in his room, used them for intimidation purposes whenever Rosalind brought home a boy. Momma insisted they both knew how to defend themselves—memories of a childhood in the Deep South haunted her, Gordon knows.

He lived for the fighting, loved it. He could lose himself in the movements, in the flash of a blade or the roar of a gun. Rosalind, though, preferred talking her way out of trouble. She had a way with words, could extract herself from anything.

No guys at school would dare mess with her; they all feared Gordon, with good reason—he'd sent a boy to the hospital his first week of freshman year. The story grew with each telling and Gordon had quite the reputation.

Momma wasn't happy with him, but he had defended Rosalind's honor. Dad chuckled when he got the news and took Gordon on a hunting trip.

"I don't want you to become a brawler, son," Dad said. "But I understand the necessity of fists. Don't become violent, don't get to the point where you see spilling blood as the only answer, and you'll be fine."

Gordon could honestly promise his father that, and didn't realize till years later that time made it a lie.

-

Rosalind was a beautiful girl. Looking at her back then, he knew she'd become a beautiful woman.

Momma and Dad wanted more children, but it never worked out. They had Gordon, then Rosalind, and no one else. Gordon wondered about how it'd feel to have other siblings to look out for, a little brother or more sisters—but then he looked at Rosalind and realized he could never love anyone else so much.

His life was centered around Rosalind and fighting. He learned every technique he could, every style offered. He devoured manuals on gun care and knives; if not for himself, this learning, then for Rosalind.

But when the time came, when he was tested, he was found wanting and he failed. He failed. And Rosalind vanished into the night, stolen, never to be found again.

-

He was downstairs watching a late night movie. Momma and Dad had gone to a party in town, celebrating Dad's fifteenth year with the company. Gordon had just turned eighteen.

Rosalind turned in early; she had a major test the next day. She'd smiled at him, kissed his cheek, said, "Gordie, I love you."

He smiled down at her, pulled her close. "Love you too, little sister," he replied and pressed his lips to her forehead.

The movie, a fifties horror film, lulled him nearly to sleep. When the glass broke, he wrote it off as part of the movie, or maybe part of his dream.

But something, maybe a sixth sense, maybe an instinct—it demanded he check, just to be sure. So he slowly stood, stretched, walked through the den, up the stairs, down the hall—and heard struggling. He lunged into his parents' room, grabbed for Dad's gun; it was slick in his grip, wet with his sweat. His heart beat furiously and he reached carefully for the knob of Rosalind's door, opened it silently.

What he saw would haunt him till death, featured in every nightmare he had for the rest of his days.

Rosalind, Rosa, baby sister—

The thing on top of her, mouth sucking on her neck, draining her of life… small droplets of blood, dotting the comforter.

Fury and hate and fear suffused him; he aimed for the thing's leg. Any other shot could hit Rosalind. He pulled the trigger once; it jumped off her, spun to face him. He pulled the trigger again and it moved, too quickly to be seen. The vision he pulled into the darkness with him was Rosalind, spread out on her bed, limp and watching him with fear, with hope—

_Help me_, her dark eyes begged. _Gordie, please… _

But the thing picked him up and threw him into the wall and he _failed_.

-

When he woke up, it was just after dawn. Downstairs, he heard Momma and Dad. At first, he didn't remember. Didn't remember Rosa and the thing that looked like a man and the blood. But when he moved, his body ached. And he smelled—

So he looked over, towards her bed—and knew.

Her bed was empty.

-

Gordon couldn't stay in the house. Not with Momma's accusing eyes and Dad's judgmental silence and the knowledge that Rosa would never be coming back.

The police were of no help. He didn't tell anyone of the thing's fangs, its maddened blue eyes. They said they'd look for Rosa, but Gordon knew she wouldn't be found.

He took his knives and nothing else. He stole into the night, determined to come back with Rosalind or not at all. He was barely eighteen, but rage coursed through him, made him more.

He found a man because of hearsay and rumors, because he knew how to listen. He followed the man—Daniel Elkins—into a bar a month after Rosa vanished. He watched the man drink a glass of water alone and then followed him home, where Elkins spun around and pulled a gun, aimed it between Gordon's eyes.

"What do you want?" Elkins demanded, not looking away from Gordon's gaze.

Gordon's answer was simple and sincere. "To learn."

-

He spent a year with Elkins. A year without Rosalind or Momma or Dad. A year with only a madman for comfort, a madman who taught him to kill.

Gordon had been good before he found Elkins, but the hunter honed his skills.

Before setting him loose on the world, Elkins smiled at him and said, "You're one of the best I've ever seen, Walker."

"Who's the best?" Gordon asked.

Elkins chuckled. "Don't go plannin' to prove yourself by taking 'im on, boy. He'll set you right on your ass, then shoot you just to prove a point."

"I won't go lookin' for him, Elkins. I just want to know his name." Gordon meant it, too. He only wanted the filthy fang that took his sister, to send the bastard to hell.

" Winchester," Elkins told him. "John Winchester."

-

Sixth months passed before he found the nest. He spent two weeks picking them off, one by one, till only three remained: the leader, Rosalind's killer, and Rosalind.

Or, rather, what Rosalind had become. She wasn't his sister anymore. Hadn't been his Rosa in a long time.

He was nineteen and a half when he made his first kill. It was a female fang, easy. Didn't sate his hunger for their extermination at all.

The next, a male, took a little more exertion, but its head flew off with a satisfactory spray of blood.

Five more over the next fourteen days. Each was easy, fun. He was ridding the world of evil, taking vengeance; and finally, he snuck into the nest and confronted Rosalind's killer.

Seeing her face to face hurt, caused a sharp pain deep inside. She looked so beautiful—but he pictured that night, remembered the thing and its bite.

The creature before him wore her face, but wasn't her. It was the thing that killed her.

The fang leader charged him with a snarl and he slashed it across the throat with a dagger soaked in dead man's blood. He spun around, following it, and stabbed it through the heart. NotRosa backed up as he turned to face the remaining two. He sensed the fang behind him stumbling to its feet, trying to take him down; he tightened his grip on his machete and took off its head with one swing.

Now Rosa's killer charged for him, snarling and shrieking; he threw one dagger and it batted the knife away. So he ducked to the side, drew two more, each dripping blood. He slashed and hacked the air, a weaving pattern he'd cobbled together.

He brought the blades together in the fang's neck; the head and body fell apart. With a satisfied smile, he turned. NotRosa was cowering in the corner, arms wrapped around itself. "Please, Gordie," it begged, sobbing. "Please, I haven't done anything. It's me, it's Rosa—"

He cut it off with a harsh, "Shut up, bitch."

This was _not_ his sister, _could not be_. Rosalind was dead. Had been for a year and half. This _thing_ wearing her form—it had _killed_ her. Taken over her body, but her soul was _gone_, had ascended to Heaven.

With one swing, he took off its head.

-

After, he just drifted for awhile. Floated from to town to town, killing what needed killing, hunting when he found a hunt. Finally, he ended up in the middle of Bumfuck, Nebraska, and a place called Harvelle's Roadhouse.

He could kill just about anything supernatural, knew enough rituals or exorcisms to get by, but he specialized in vampires. That's where he made his name.

Gordon didn't know what to expect when he shoved open the door, but it wasn't a pretty young thing and a barroom full of grizzled old hunters. He cased the room in a glance and moved for the bar, sank down onto an empty stool. He said "Beer" when the matronly bartender asked what he wanted and he kept to himself, discreetly watching the young girl acting as waitress. She couldn't be more than eleven, if that. She maneuvered her way around the men with ease, talking to them, asking about children or women, about friends.

"My daughter," the bartender said.

Gordon looked back at her. "You aren't worried?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of his beer.

She glanced past him and tilted her head. "No," she answered. "People know what'll happen if they take advantage of my hospitality." She met his gaze again and smiled.

Gordon stared at her for a moment, taking her measure. She reminded him of Elkins, in a way, tough and strong and prepared to take shit from no-one.

"I'm Gordon Walker," he announced, draining his bottle in one sip.

"Ellen Harvelle," she responded. She gestured to the barroom. "This here's my saloon." She smiled again and moved on down the bar, tossing over her shoulder, "Welcome, hunter."

Gordon'd just had his twenty-second birthday. He let it pass without celebration. He doubted he'd ever celebrate again.

-

He made the Roadhouse his homebase for awhile, took a room Ellen offered in the back. She lived in apartments above the Roadhouse with her daughter, Jo, and husband, Will. Will himself hunted now and again; sometimes, Ellen went with him.

Gordon listened to the hunters that came through, shared stories. Many of them couldn't believe the vampire killer's name being whispered with fear across the territories was his, just a kid—but he met their eyes without flinching and they were the ones who looked away.

He threw himself into each hunt without fear, without reservation. He did not care if he lived or died, and it showed—he surrendered fully to the bloodlust his father had told him to never let control him. He fought like a monster, maddened with rage; he fought with no consideration to injury.

The fact that he survived to be twenty-five spoke of skill or luck; he didn't give it any thought. He lived. He lived and Rosalind was dead. He lived merely to kill. So he hunted and he fought, and each day he saw the sun, he cursed Rosa for leaving him alone.

-

Gordon met John Winchester a week past his twenty-sixth birthday. He'd heard of a string of mysterious deaths in a town he was passing through, so he stopped in.

He'd heard of Winchester through the hunter's grapevine; Will had met up with him a few times, for various hunts. He said Winchester was driven, wound tight. He lived only for vengeance and his boys, two sons. "Trainin' to be like him," Will said with a shake of his head. "Them poor kids don't have a chance."

"How old're they?" Gordon asked, still curious about the one man Elkins said could beat him.

"The elder, Dean," Will said, pursing his lips and thinking. "Hmm… he'd be about seventeen now. And Sam, he's a little older than Jo—thirteen, if I remember right." Will laughed. "Besides the demon he's after and the hunt, they're all he talks about."

Gordon nodded and the discussion continued, flowed easily from one topic to the next. The following morning, Will took off for a hunt, Ellen with him. They left Gordon in charge for the three days they'd be gone.

It wasn't long after that Gordon went hunting again, grown tired of waiting for hunts to fall into his lap. He told Ellen he'd be back when he was back; she knew the hunter-type, so she just nodded. Jo hugged him goodbye; she'd taken to him like an older brother, the sibling she'd never had. He saw Rosalind every time he looked at her, but he was able to see past that, to see _her_.

She was an inquisitive girl, curious about everything. She enjoyed shooting, and was good at it—not the best Gordon'd ever known(that'd be himself) but certainly not the worst. Momma hadn't been able to shoot worth shit, but Ellen fired with an accuracy that was damned scary. A few hunters had joked one night, three sheets to the wind, that she was touched in the head, that's what made her so good. Gordon hadn't been a part of the conversation; he was helping Jo straighten up the barroom before turning in the night.

Jo didn't hear the comment. But Gordon did and he glanced over, past the hunters, to where Ellen was wiping down the bar. She stiffened and slowly raised her head, looked at the four hunters with something akin to amusement—but her every movement was tinted with rage. She took a deep breath and returned to her work. After a moment, Gordon did the same. The fools never noticed.

She wasn't crazy, not like they meant. But she was something else.

-

Gordon took off at dawn, with a hug from Jo, a nod and handshake from Will, and a kiss on the forehead from Ellen.

"You'll be back," she said with a smile. "Older, more experienced. A good man to have around."

He thanked her and left, heading north. Months passed before he hit the town where everything changed, though he didn't know it for some time. A long time.

-

John Winchester was everything Elkins and Will had said—and more. He had an intensity about him that Gordon knew he'd probably never match, not even if he hunted for a hundred years.

Gordon came in on the tail-end of Winchester's ridding of the spirit and could only watch in awe. The way Winchester moved—Gordon could only describe it as catlike, fluid in a way only _predators_ could be. No wasted motion and no telegraphing of where that motion would be—Elkins was right. Gordon couldn't beat this man. Not yet, and probably never.

"Gonna stand there, boy? Or you gonna make yourself useful?"

Winchester's voice was deep, dark. Gordon started at the sound and asked, "Sir?" on instinct.

"The bastard's back in hell," Winchester said, looking over his shoulder and pinning Gordon with his sharp stare. "But there's still a mess to be seen to."

Gordon hurried forward and started gathering up Winchester's materials. Winchester stretched, popped his neck, and stooped down to pick up a leather notebook that'd been cast haphazardly on the ground. "You know who I am?" he inquired as he rose back up and placed the notebook in one of his jacket's inner pockets.

"John Winchester, sir," Gordon answered promptly, rising to his feet, holding out the sack he'd tossed all of Winchester's things into.

"You always this respectful?" Winchester's tone was almost teasing but his face remained impassive, solemn.

"Almost never, sir," Gordon responded.

"Alright," Winchester chuckled and relaxed. "Let's get a drink." He took the bag from Gordon and turned. "Got a name?"

"Gordon Walker, sir." Gordon fell in behind him, followed him from the room and down the stairs.

"The guy with a vendetta against vampires?"

"Yes, sir."

At the door of the house, Winchester paused and looked over his shoulder. "Call me John."

-

That 'drink' lasted a week. John, once he got going, could talk for hours. He talked about the hunt, The Demon(Gordon could hear the capitalizing), his murdered wife, his son the reluctant hunter who loved school, and his other son, Dean.

"Sam's too much like me," John said, and it sounded like a confession. They were in his hotel room, working through the third six-pack of beer, and John still didn't slur his words. "But Dean—I see Mary in him and it burns."

Gordon nodded and nearly fell off the bed. He remembered Rosalind and he talked about her and he didn't cry but damn he wanted to. John listened and drank and Gordon fell asleep to his voice, talking about Mary and how they'd met, how he never thought he was good enough for her, and their beautiful springtime wedding.

-

"So, Elkins taught you?"

Gordon was sharpening his favorite knife and John cleaned his guns. Gordon, after awakening from his alcohol-induced slumber, had dropped the 'sir,' but he still moved cautiously around John.

"Yes," Gordon replied without looking up.

John chuckled. "He told me, when I left, that I'd broken him to anymore students. Just couldn't handle young pups after me."

Gordon looked over. John was grinning down at his gun, an open expression on his face that Gordon couldn't quite believe. It made the other hunter look years younger. John raised his head and met Gordon's eyes. He kept grinning, inviting Gordon to join, so he did.

The grin felt alien on his face, but pleasant; he honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled joyously. Probably with Rosalind, before—

"He still a crazy bastard?" John asked and Gordon nodded. John chuckled again.

-

Gordon continued on his cross-country trip and John still chased his demon. Sometimes they'd meet up for a hunt or just to drink; from the stories he'd heard, Gordon knew John eventually had falling outs with everyone. There was something abrasive in John's nature, Gordon could see that, something that lashed out at people.

Most hunters lost someone, had someone stolen by the night and pain. Siblings, spouses, children, parents—a person, or people, they loved. John was no different in that regard. He'd worshipped Mary, that everyone agreed on. And even before that November night, before she died, there'd been a darkness in him. Gordon would bet that.

Gordon had the same darkness in him before Rosalind's theft. And after, all hunting did was hone it.

John was a nasty son of a bitch when he wanted to be. Could use words like a weapon, laced with malice and malevolence. Gordon did not shoot back with anything, content to take it. John pushed everyone away and it seemed many were willing to go without fighting. Gordon had decided he wasn't.

-

On one of his visits to the Roadhouse, Gordon asked Will and Ellen about it. About John's temper and temperament, the way he seemed to revel in pissing people off.

"I knew Mary," Ellen revealed, wiping down the bar after closing. "She was a sweet girl, but had her edges, of course. Hidden facets. John's idealized her, forgotten who she really was. He's still reeling." Elle paused, staring at the wall, and her hand clenched around the rag. "She saved him. He'd been on a downward spiral before they met, and she centered him. Showed him that there are reasons to live, despite all the pain." Ellen glanced at Will, then Gordon, and continued softly. "If he hadn't had those boys, he'd have eaten a bullet after she died."

"There's enough anger in him to keep him going for a long time," Will said, taking a sip of his beer. "He'll track that demon to the end of the world, through Hell and back. He's good, too, pretty much the best there is. Dangerous, though. Very dangerous."

"Yeah," Gordon chuckled. "That I'd noticed."

-

A few months before his thirty-first birthday, Gordon met Dean Winchester.

He'd heard talk of how inhumanly beautiful the elder Winchester boy was, how John'd worked extra hard when his son was young to keep him safe.

Not all evil is supernatural, after all. Some humans could be just as bad.

Looking at Dean, Gordon realized the stories didn't do him justice. Not at all.

During his last meet-up with John, Gordon'd heard all about Sam's abandonment of the family and the hunt. John wasn't just pissed with his boy, though. He'd also bragged about Sam's brains, how smart he'd always been.

John was quite drunk, so Gordon figured he could get away with asking, "How'd Dean take it?"

Shrugging, John replied, "Silent. Didn't speak a solitary word for hours."

-

Dean's movements were even smoother than his father's, Gordon observed. If John was a cat, then Dean was the wind. Something coiled in Dean, some deep anger, and Gordon didn't want to be anywhere near him when the boy couldn't take it anymore.

"Who're you?" Dean demanded, standing still before Gordon.

"Gordon Walker," he answered. "And this is _your_ hunt, I take it?"

Dean studied him for a moment, assessing. Gordon actually hoped he wasn't found wanting.

Finally, Dean smiled. Gordon would have been fooled if he didn't know John, because John often smiled the same way. The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Dean Winchester," he replied. "And you can tag along, if you want."

"Thank you for the permission," Gordon deadpanned, and Dean laughed.

-

For the hunt, Gordon just observed. It was a creature, some foul mixture of a banshee and a Black Dog. "Seen anything like this before?" Gordon asked. "Any idea how it was created?"

Dean shrugged his answer to both and took off the monster's head with four well-placed bullets. Gordon had to reevaluate the rankings of shooters: he'd been booted from the top spot when he met John, but now John himself was tossed down a slot.

With a laugh, Dean turned and grinned his fake grin at Gordon. "Whatever it was," Dean said, padding over like a giant cat, "take off its' head and down it goes."

"That is a good philosophy," Gordon agreed. "But if it don't work?"

"Well," Dean mused, "I guess I'd just have to keep shooting." He slipped one of his guns into his belt and tossed the other into the trunk of his car.

"Wow," Gordon whispered. "Now _that_ is a car."

Dean laughed and closed the trunk, then patted the lid. "This here's my baby," Dean told him. "I've known her my whole life." As he walked around toward the driver's seat, he looked over his shoulder. Gordon raised his head to meet Dean's gaze. "I was gonna swing by a bar before finding a place to crash for the night. You can join me, if you want."

Gordon thought for nearly half a heartbeat before answering, "I'd like that."

Dean's smile still didn't reach his eyes. "Follow me, then," he said and slipped into his car.

-

All the times Gordon had shared a few drinks with John, he'd never once considered it going any further. John loved his wife; she was the end-all and be-all of his universe.

Dean, though—well, Gordon was neither blind nor a fool. He knew what Dean was offering and he honestly didn't know that he would accept.

Gordon drank four glasses and then refused anymore. Dean drank half a glass and then just listened as Gordon poured out his life story. "Baby sister, huh?" he asked sympathetically. "Man."

"She was beautiful," Gordon said. "That fucking filthy fang—I had its head. Hacked it off, stupid bastard—" His hand clenched around the glass, squeezing till it shattered. Some shards dug into his skin but he didn't register the pain. "It _killed_ her, Dean," he muttered, a pleading tone entering his voice. "I had to. She wasn't Rosa anymore."

He watched as Dean reached out, picked up his hand, turned it over. Dean's fingers danced on his skin, deftly plucking out the glass. "Vengeance," Dean murmured. "I understand that."

"She wasn't Rosa," Gordon whispered, and if tears leaked out of his eyes, they could be blamed on the alcohol. "I owed it to Rosa to kill the thing wearing her skin."

Dean's fingers stilled, the final piece of glass in his grip. Gordon didn't notice the way Dean's body tightened or the look in his eyes. "What do you mean, Gordon?" he asked, voice soft.

"She wasn't my sister. Rosalind died that night." Gordon could feel sleep looming. Whatever Dean had ordered, it was strong. Stronger than anything Gordon'd had before.

"You killed your little sister?"

If Gordon hadn't been drunk, he'd have known to get away from Dean right then. Instead he slumped down and Dean barely kept him from sliding out of the chair. Dean's hand brushed his face.

"Let's get you some place to sleep this off, huh?" he muttered. He threw Gordon's arm across his shoulders and practically carried him from the bar.

-

Gordon woke alone in a motel room, the worst headache of his life pounding away behind his eyes. All he could remember was that, in the heat of battle, Dean Winchester was even more terrifying than his father, and the boy was still learning.

-

The next couple of years passed slowly, without any great tragedies or hunts. Gordon was at the Roadhouse more often than he wasn't. And then Will broke the news.

"You have a son?" Gordon asked, caught completely off-guard. He'd thought Jo was their only child.

"From a previous relationship," Will explained. "It didn't end well." Down at the other end of the bar, Ellen scoffed. "His mother ran with him when he was three months old. I've seen him a handful of times since then."

"He got a name?" Gordon queried, curiosity not sated in the least.

"Ashley Cade," Will said, grimacing. "His mother has a mean sense of humor. She called him Ash, but he told me to call him Cade."

"Alright," Gordon replied, barely keeping the smile from his face. "You told Jo yet?"

Will slumped down, resting his head on the bar. "How am I supposed to tell her she has a brother she never knew about and that he's coming to live with us because he got his ass kicked out of MIT and his mom can't deal with him anymore?"

"About like that, I'd expect," Gordon answered and nodded towards the door when Will looked up.

Jo stood there, twenty years old and beautiful, five feet four inches of righteous fury. She glared daggers at her father, then her mother, and spun around, stormed back down the hall.

Will sighed and lowered his head back to the table.

"How old's this boy?" Gordon asked, standing and stretching.

"Twenty-six," Will told the table.

"He gonna be trouble? Get in the way of hunting?"

"No." It was Ellen who spoke, walking over and touching Will's shoulder. "I'll go talk to her."

"It'll work out, Will," Gordon said and headed to his room.

-

Gordon did not get on with Will's son. The boy was a genius and completely insane. He found his way to Gordon's bad side every time they were near each other, with his voice and his stench and his way of not being able to shut the fuck up.

Ellen found it hysterical. Jo loved talking with Cade about anything, but always within earshot of Gordon. Will was just glad that Jo and Cade got along, and that Cade endeared himself to Ellen by offering to hook up the internet for her use.

About five months after Cade made the Roadhouse his home, Gordon was out back practicing his shooting, hitting the bull's-eye each time. He heard the door open behind him, could tell by the footsteps who it was.

"You know there's a mathematical formula to firing?" Cade asked.

Gordon clenched his teeth and kept shooting.

"I could teach it to you," Cade said. "You'd never miss again."

Gordon spun around, aimed the barrel right between Cade's eyes. "I miss very rarely," he stated, baring his teeth in the parody of a smile. "And never from this distance."

Cade's eyes were wide and sweat dripped down his face. He swallowed audibly and raised his hands in supplication. "You wouldn't really shoot me," he laughed nervously. "Right?"

Gordon just tilted his head, not looking away from Cade's terrified bright blue eyes. He let the boy suffer for a moment more before pointing the gun at the ground. "'course not," he answered. "Ellen'd kick my ass."

-

Cade was wary around Gordon after that, but Gordon found him less wearisome. Cade learned Gordon's triggers and cues, figured out things Gordon didn't mind talking about. He even asked Gordon for shooting lessons and some knife moves, which Gordon didn't mind giving him.

Everyone needs to learn how to defend themselves, after all.

It was a year to the day Cade first showed up that he attempted to kiss Gordon. Gordon saw it coming from a mile away; if there was anything Cade wasn't, it was subtle. He'd known for about four months by that point that Cade had something of crush on him. He didn't mind—the kid had finally endeared himself to Gordon by developing a vampire tracking system using the internet that made hunting far easier.

Gordon was wiping down tables while Cade swept. Jo was out on date with some kid named Victor(who'd been duly threatened by Will, Ellen, Gordon, and Cade), and Ellen and Will were on a hunt three states over.

Cade set the broom against the wall and sedately walked over, trying to appear suave and cool, but the effect was ruined by his wild, untamable hair. And he tripped over air, catching himself with a curse. Gordon grinned and stood up straight, met Cade's eyes.

The kid paused and ducked his head, wiped his hands across his pants. Gordon took pity on him and asked, "Somethin' you want, Cade?"

Cade looked up for half a second, then back at the floor. He'd told Gordon all about his college exploits, and his life with his mother, a different girl every week. Gordon had learned to recognize when he was lying and when he wasn't; almost a fourth of his stories were true. Gordon knew that he wasn't as smooth as he pretended to be, but he was smoother than this.

Which meant the kid really did like him. Damn.

"I like you," Cade began without preamble. "You're a good guy, and you're funny, in a scary kind of way, and you're nice—"

"Cade," Gordon interrupted and Cade fell silent. Gordon stepped forward and said, "Look at me."

Cade raised his head, nervous and skittish, ready to flee at a moment's notice. Gordon lifted his right hand, touching Cade's shoulder, then face. "I haven't had a relationship with anyone in over ten years, Cade," he started. "I'm damaged goods. I'm not the type of person you should want."

"But I do," Cade answered. He almost smiled and moved closer.

Gordon nearly laughed and let his hand fall. "You shouldn't. You're a genius, and you deserve more than a broken hunter who's forgotten how to be anything more."

Rosalind flashed in his mind. She'd want him to be happy, to quit tormenting himself with his failure. He could her voice, clear as day, in his mind. _It's been fifteen years, Gordie. Move on. Let yourself live. _

So when Cade stepped into his space and reached up to pull his head down, Gordon let him.

-

Jo hugged them both and Will shook his head. Ellen just laughed.

Gordon smiled more and made sure to teach Cade all about knife fighting. For a few months, till just after his thirty-third birthday, Gordon was the happiest he'd been since the night Rosalind died. He could almost see a life past hunting. Ellen had taught him the basics of running a saloon and let him make most of the decisions regarding the Roadhouse.

And then John Winchester called.

-

Gordon was the one who answered the phone.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse," he said.

"I need to speak with Ellen or William," a harsh voice replied. Gordon knew he'd heard the voice before but couldn't place it.

"Hold on," he responded and put down the receiver. He came across Ellen first, and continued scrubbing down the bar. Honestly, he hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but Ellen wasn't quiet at the best of times.

"John, say that again," Ellen demanded, almost panicked. Then, "You want me to round everyone up?" Gordon glanced up to see her nod, scribbling something on a scrap of paper. "Okay, me, Will, and Gordon Walker can be there by early tomorrow. It might be longer if you need me to call everyone else." She paused and rolled her eyes. "No, John. I'm not letting you get yourself or your boys killed because you're impatient. It's not a problem." She nodded again. "See you then, John. And don't go rushing into anything, okay?"

Ellen hung up and sighed, slumping down over the bar, resting her head on the worn wood. "Ellen?" Gordon asked. "Is everythin' alright?"

"Just peachy," she laughed. "Goddamn, John thinks he's found the bastard."

"John Winchester?" Then Gordon realized, "The demon that killed his wife?"

"Yeah." She stood back up and rolled her shoulders, cracked her neck. "I need you to track down Will, Jo, and Cade. I've got some calls to make."

Gordon nodded and tossed down his rag.

-

Ellen served a round of drinks, saying, "Jo and Cade'll stay here. Leave the doors and windows locked; salt every possible entrance. Keep weapons within easy reach, and a phone." She collapsed into the chair next to Will and took a long draught of her beer. "Dear god, this is gonna be hard."

"Mom?" Jo asked.

Will reached over and put his arm across Ellen's shoulders. "John Winchester called," Ellen began. "He said Dean had left a message, and he didn't check till almost a day passed. Dean requested back-up, said something huge was going down and that a family seemed to be in the middle of it. Demons were playing with them, for some reason, and neither Dean nor Sam had any idea what to do." Ellen took another gulp of her beer. "John wants me to call everyone. He's talked to his boys and this is the real deal. He's promised them major back-up and we need to make it happen."

"We can do that?" Cade asked.

"Yes," Will answered. "We can. John's saved most everyone's life at least once, despite his temper and disposition. If he needs help, he'll have it."

"Okay," Gordon said. "How many have you called?"

"Elkins, the Kinlin brothers, Turner, and Clancy. They'll spread the word. I've given the location and timeframe, which is soon. Damned soon. Them boys are in the middle of something they can't possibly be ready for."

"How do you know that?" Jo inquired, refilling her mother's glass.

Ellen looked over. Gordon didn't recognize her expression and he shivered when she replied, "I just do."

-

They arrived just after one o'clock in the afternoon. John met them at the door of the small motel, wearily slumped against the frame. "They did it," he told them and laughed. He doubled over and kept laughing, sounding slightly unhinged.

Ellen and Will exchanged a glance, then Ellen asked, "John, you alright?"

He straightened and smiled. "The boys dealt with it. Half a dozen demons and they got 'em all."

Will's mouth dropped open. "Are you serious?"

John nodded. "I am." He stepped back into the motel and said, "C'mon in. The owner is resting, and so's everyone else. I have her permission to cook anything I want. I explained, before she laid down, that I had an army coming; she just sighed and thanked me."

"Who's everyone else?" Gordon asked, taking a look around.

"My boys and a friend, and Joanna Springs and her sons, Michael and Asher."

They all took a seat at the table in the middle of Joanna Springs' kitchen and John served coffee.

"Now," Will said, "what happened?"

And John explained. About The Demon possessing a boy and how Dean killed it. "I don't know what he did," John said with a shake of his head. "But he didn't just exorcize it, didn't just send it to hell—he destroyed it."

Everyone was silent for a moment, then Will asked, "Who's this friend?"

John drained his mug and then stood, walked to the counter, poured a refill. "He's a kid, 'bout twenty-two. Looks freakishly like Dean, but he's a good guy."

"'Freakishly like Dean', how?" Ellen demanded, voice slightly off. The three men looked at her, and she was pale, eyes wide.

"Ellen?" Will said, reaching over to touch her forehead. "Are you alright?"

"Hello?" a new voice called, and a woman walked in. She was beautiful, petite, black hair and brown eyes.

Ellen turned to face her as John said, "This is Joanna Springs." Ellen stood and met Joanna's eyes, then laughed. She fell back into her chair, still laughing. Will knelt next to her, trying to calm her, while John stood and hurried to Joanna, reassured her that everything was fine. Gordon looked from Ellen to Joanna and back.

It had to be a trick of his mind, his eyes—had to be.

-

The hunters came in twos and threes. Ellen called the Roadhouse to let Jo and Cade know the battle had ended before they arrived.

John sent the hunters away, thanked them for coming. None were upset that they'd made the trip for no reason; they understood that someone in their line of work could never be too careful.

John reconciled with men and women he'd long ago pushed away. It seemed a weight had dropped from his shoulders; he almost appeared young again.

Four hunters refused to go, and Gordon watched John interact with Jim Murphy, Elkins, Caleb Turner, and Bobby Singer. Murphy wasn't what he'd expected; Will had told him about the gentle preacher who'd often helped John with his boys, but this man—steel in his soul. He carried a gun like he'd been born to it. Elkins hadn't changed in the years since he taught Gordon; he was still a crazy sumbitch, still ready to fight and kill anything that threatened him. Turner moved dangerously, like John and Dean, silent. And Singer—just after he arrived, he'd pulled John into a private conversation that lasted the better part of two hours.

Gordon spent that time talking to Caleb, the only person about his age. They discussed guns, mainly, but also some about knives and various things they'd killed.

Finally, Singer and John came back into the kitchen. Ellen'd been silent the whole time they were gone, kept to herself in the corner, nursing a bottle of water. Gordon had looked over every once in a while, just to check on her; she'd worried her bottom lip near clean-through. Will had been deep in discussion with Murphy and Elkins, but Gordon had also noticed him sneaking looks toward Ellen.

When John and Singer came back in, Ellen pushed off the wall and stood to her full height. "You really think it's over?" she asked with a scoffing laugh. "That something that powerful didn't have a back-up plan in place?"

"No," John answered. "I know for a fact it isn't over. But my sons need a rest and I intend to let them have it."

"You called us because you figured they were in too deep, too soon. And now, to here tell of it, they defeated some of the nastiest things in creation with barely a blink. John, do you have any idea what's going on?" Ellen's voice had started out strong, righteous; but by the end of her diatribe, she'd faded, sunk back in on herself. The water bottle dangled from her fingers, nearly empty; with a bit-off curse, she threw it down and stormed from the kitchen, barreling between Will and Elkins.

The men watched her go; then with a sigh, Will followed.

"Do you?" Singer echoed softly, watching John.

"Yeah," John answered just as softly. "Actually, I do."

Gordon had his suspicions, but no solid proof. He'd met Dean and he knew John; since he'd thrown his lot in with the Roadhouse crew, his worldview had shifted slightly.

So he left the kitchen, pulling his cellphone from his pocket, and he dialed Cade's number.

-

Gordon spent most of the next week talking to Caleb in person or Cade on the phone or visiting with Elkins or Joanna. Come to find out, he and Joanna had a lot in common. He listened as she spoke of her boys when they were younger, or that nightmare with the demonically possessed.

More than once, she asked if she were crazy. So Gordon shared his experiences with the otherworld and she listened, by turns sympathetic and horrified.

Dean, Sam, the 'friend' who looked freakishly like Dean named Jake, and Joanna's boys spent the week resting. John'd said they nearly burned themselves out, destroying the demons.

The first one to venture from hibernation was a tall guy John introduced to Gordon as his younger son Sam. Gordon greeted him cordially; everyone could see the kid was still wiped out. "How're Dean and Jake?" John asked and Sam sighed.

"Dean refuses to sleep more than a few hours at a time," he answered, filling a glass with water and draining it dry in one gulp.

"How're you?" Murphy inquired, coming closer.

Sam turned to him and gave a double-take. "Pastor Jim?" He held out a hand; Murphy grabbed it and pulled him in for hug. "I thought you'd retired."

Murphy laughed and released him. "I did. But your dad had everyone here, just to be safe." He patted Sam's shoulder and laughed again. "You've grown, Sam."

Sam ducked his head and refilled his glass, chugging it down in one gulp again. He leaned against the counter and just listened to them talk, offering a comment here and there. Gordon studied him, looking for hints of John or Dean—looking for a hunter in the affable boy.

After about twenty minutes, Sam was drooping. John sent him back to his room with instructions to rest some more. Sam went without a struggle, with just a nod and weary, "Yes, sir."

It wasn't but a few hours later when Dean appeared. He sank into a chair at the kitchen table, clearly hurting. Murphy brought him a tall glass of water, which he took with muttered thanks and drained in one giant gulp. After he removed the rim from his mouth, he gasped for air and coughed; Murphy took the glass from him and refilled it, setting it in front of it.

"You alright, son?" John asked quietly and Dean nodded.

"A few more days, I'll be good as new," he answered.

Ellen slipped into the room and said, "You need to tell us what happened, Dean." Her voice was soft, weary. Dean looked up and over; Gordon could tell—and bet everyone else could, too—that Dean would have liked nothing more than to never speak of whatever it was ever again.

"There was some demons," Dean shrugged. "We got rid of 'em. End of story."

"No," Ellen replied, shaking her head and stepping closer. "Not end of story. What you did… what Sam and Jake, Michael and Asher did—it's not possible. Not for humans."

Dean straightened and Gordon stiffened; John slowly turned his head from Dean to Ellen. "What are you saying?" he rumbled.

Dean's face was blank but for a dangerous half-smirk. Elkins, Singer, Murphy, and Turner all stepped back, letting the Winchesters and Ellen have space. Will stepped into the room behind Ellen.

"I'm saying that…" Ellen's voice trailed off and she never looked away from Dean. "She tried escape, Mary did. But it can't be done. Leaving the family never works."

Ellen kept coming closer and Dean's hand tightened around the glass. "It killed Cassandra, Maralyn, and Jessica—It tried to kill Michael, Asher, and you."

"The hell you talkin' about?" Dean bit off and stood, shoving his chair back so hard it flipped.

Ellen's smile was sad and she almost laughed. "You know. You can't help but know. It's all there, in the back of your mind. Knowledge you don't want, but know all the same. That's how it always is."

Dean was silent for a moment, face shuttered; then he stormed past her without looking back.

John moved. Gordon didn't see him till he was already in Ellen's face, towering over her. "What do you know, Ellen?" he growled.

"What Mary was. What her sons are. What about _you_, John?" The words were hurled at him as she straightened to her full height, eyes glaring.

"I know enough. They are _my_ sons. It doesn't matter—nothing else matters. They are _mine_."

And Ellen laughed. She shook her head and Will reached out, touched her shoulder. "There's an entire history, John. A genealogy of children sworn away before conception. Maralyn tried to escape and she became Mary. Cassandra died, even younger than Mary—and Jessica."

"Jessica?" John scoffed. "What does she have to do—"

"She was Kenneth's daughter, John. Kenneth, the eldest of Mary's siblings." Ellen softened and raised her hand to John's shoulder. "It's all twisted. The family… the war's started and there's nowhere to turn. There's two left of the family older than forty, and they won't last long, can't. Their power has waned. Mary—Maralyn—she was the brightest and she ran."

Ellen paused and Gordon looked away, at Murphy, Singer, Elkins, and Turner. Murphy had his eyes closed, Singer was watching John, Elkins had his hand on the gun in his belt, and Turner just leaned against the wall, face calm. Gordon glanced back to John, who appeared to be carved from granite. He was still, cold—scary.

"And then there's the children—four of them. Two boys, two girls. Two of them also have kids." Ellen turned earnest. "You don't know what's going on, John. All the elders who did—they're dead. The _entire family_ wiped out in a night. But the boys here… they took on some of the strongest demons—_and they won_." She laughed again. "Doesn't that tell you something?"

John stepped back. "You're crazy, Ellen. Get some sleep." He stared at her and no one else spoke, so she slowly nodded.

"Alright. But hear me, John. I know what they're feelin', what they're goin' through. It's nowhere near over, and that demon, the big one? It's not gone." She spun around and breezed back out. Will studied John for a moment then followed her.

"John?" Singer asked. "How you doin'?"

"Are they a threat?" Turner spoke from his corner, voice soft.

John chuckled. "I know my boys, Caleb. Whatever she's goin' on about, they're not dangerous to us."

"Alright," Turner responded.

"Get some sleep," John said, glancing at everyone. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

-

Gordon followed John into the hall.

"It's not natural, John. You know it." Gordon didn't like stating it, but it had to be said.

John raised his head, looked over. His eyes were cold—dangerous. Gordon just kept himself from stepping back. "If any move is made on them, Walker," John said, "I will come for you."

Gordon hadn't stepped down from a fight in years, but Elkins' words echoed in his head: _He'll set you right on your ass, then shoot you just to prove a point._

"If it's supernatural," Gordon tried, holding out his hands to show he was no threat, "then it's dangerous."

John stepped forward. "You killed your sister, Gordon. I won't kill my boys. And nothing else will, either."

His heart pounding, Gordon backed down. "Fine."

It was two days later that the kids—Michael and Asher—left their room. Gordon was in the kitchen with Joanna and Dean; he waited till Dean introduced him to leave. He'd been wanting to talk to Ellen—alone—ever since her little freak-out, but hadn't had the chance.

That discussion John promised didn't happen. At least, not with Gordon. But he suspected John talked with Singer and Murphy, at the least. And most likely Turner, too. Which pissed Gordon off just a bit.

Now that the boys were up, they'd hold John's attention. So Gordon tracked Ellen down, determined to learn everything.

-

Ellen didn't want to tell him, but she'd held the secrets so long—they weighed heavy and they spilled out, and Gordon listened in silence.

She was something else. Unnatural. And a kind woman who'd offered him a home. Human. But not.

"They're your nephews?" he asked and she nodded, eyes wary.

"Only the family knew the truth, Gordon," she said softly. "Those of the blood and those who mated in. I don't know how John knows what he knows, because Mary never told him. She was determined to escape the family, everything it meant. If she hadn't…" Ellen trailed off and shrugged. "She had the power, Gordon. And so do her sons. But without training, without direction…" She shook her head.

"What about Jake?" Gordon asked. "Do you know who, or what, he is?"

Ellen almost smiled and met his eyes. "Something else, better," she answered. "Dean's son."

Gordon let out a bark of laughter. "That's impossible, Ellen. Dean can't be but six years older, at the most."

"Magic," Ellen replied. "Meddling in things that shouldn't be meddled with. I felt when his power waxed and waned. He outshone even Maralyn and her boys."

Gordon looked at her for a second, considered. "You know my belief, Ellen. Can you honestly tell me they aren't a danger?"

Ellen met his eyes straight on and nodded. "I can, Gordon. They aren't a danger, not to those who don't threaten them."

"Okay," he replied and put his trust in her.

-

Ellen, Will, and Gordon left Fitchburg just after dawn. Ellen had nodded goodbye to Elkins, Murphy, Turner, and Singer, but had merely shared a glance with John. Elkins clapped Will and Gordon on the shoulder, and Turner shook their hands. Murphy clasped their forearms and Singer nodded.

John just watched with a solemn look and inclined his head minutely.

-

When they got back to the Roadhouse, Ellen pulled Jo to her and held her daughter for a long time.

"Mom?" Jo asked, wrapping her arms around Ellen, looking over her shoulder at Will. "What's wrong?"

"Trouble's coming," Ellen whispered, and Gordon could barely hear her. "I just…" She shuddered and Will stepped over to his family, encircled both with his arms.

Gordon silently slipped out back, where Cade was practicing with knives. "You'd think," Gordon said, "with all your brains, you'd have mastered that formula by now."

Cade turned with a huge grin and greeted Gordon with a bear-hug. "Ya'll're back!" He pulled away slightly, looked Gordon in the eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"Things have changed," Gordon answered, letting his head sag and rest on Cade's. "Gotten… complicated."

"Gordon?"

He sighed, slinking his arms down around Cade. "Everythin'll be fine. It's just… it might be a long, hard road gettin' there."

-

The next few months were slow, quiet. Ellen called hunters all over the country, warning them of various things she knew would happen before they did. She never spoke of Fitchburg or what she'd told Gordon. He didn't ask if Will or Jo knew.

Gordon went out on the odd hunt now and then, but he felt hesitant to leave the Roadhouse for long.

When Ellen got the call for a dangerous hunt that required both her and Will, as well as Gordon, she fought to keep from having to go. She tried convincing all of them that they couldn't, shouldn't go—_something_ would happen if they did.

But Eddie Kinlin kept calling back. "George is hurt," he told Gordon when Gordon was the one who answered. "There're dozens of people in danger if that damned pack ain't taken down, and I can't do it alone. I've called everyone else, and they're just as busy."

Gordon sighed. "I'll talk to her, Eddie. I'll do my best."

Will, Gordon, Jo, and Cade all ganged up on Ellen, convinced her they had to do this. "We'll salt every door and window, Mom," Jo assured her. "Twice over. We won't let anyone in. We'll keep weapons close and a phone closer. You _have_ to go."

Ellen kissed both Jo and Cade on the forehead and didn't say goodbye. Will hugged them both, said they'd be back within two weeks, but they'd call periodically. Gordon hugged Jo and then kissed Cade. "Take care of yourselves," he said then joined Ellen and Will in the car.

-

The hunt went smoothly. The Kinlin brothers thanked them for coming and they wasted no time in heading back for the Roadhouse.

"Something's wrong," Ellen said the minute no one answered her call.

A pit in Gordon's stomach echoed her sentiment and Will drove faster.

-

Gordon saw the smoke from miles away. It billowed into the sky, drifting, all coming from one spot. Ellen saw it next, then Will.

"No," Ellen moaned and Will broke 100mph.

-

The Roadhouse was a smoking ruin. It had been gutted from the inside out. The second floor had fallen in and nothing was left untouched. In the center of what had been the barroom, two skeletons rested, guns just out of reach. "No," Ellen whimpered, falling to her knees, shaking her head.

"It is a shame, isn't it?" a lilting voice asked and Gordon whirled around, throwing a knife and raising his gun. A man stood a little to the side, a maniacal grin twisting his lips. His hair was long and unkept, a pale blond just starting to turn gray. He batted the blade away.

Ellen lunged to her feet and spun to face him. "Kenneth," she snarled, "how could you _do_ this?" She moved faster than Gordon had ever seen before and attacked Kenneth, shrieking all the while.

But Kenneth just laughed and shoved her back. "Little sister," he chuckled, "I merely accepted the inevitable. Your daughter was too much of a loose end, and no loss to the cause. She hadn't much potential, anyway, less than you."

Ellen glared at him and Gordon squeezed the trigger, hatred and rage coursing through his blood.

Kenneth raised his head, met Gordon's eyes, and smiled. And then Gordon felt himself falling backwards, into blackness.

-

He woke to Ellen sobbing. Will was muttering but Gordon couldn't make out his words. Gordon was facedown in the dirt, aching all over, and his head throbbed.

For a moment, he couldn't remember. But then he smelled the smoke.

"Gordon," someone said, but he ignored the voice, closing his eyes and wallowing in his pain, his rage, his hate—he hadn't felt this way in years, not since Rosalind.

Rosalind. Cade. Jo. Two sisters and a lover, and clearly Gordon just hadn't been meant for happiness.

" Walker," the voice tried again. "Listen. The three of you need to get out of here. Now, get the fuck up."

Anger rushed through him and he shoved off the ground, lunging to his feet. A knife was in his hand and he slashed towards the voice without seeing, without even really thinking about it.

A hand grabbed his wrist and twisted; the dagger slipped from his fingers and his mind cleared enough to recognize the man, the voice, the tight grip. "John?"

John nodded. On either side of him were Singer and Turner. Turner separated, went to Ellen; he picked her up as if she weighed nothing, and she was so far gone she didn't even struggle. Singer strode over to Will, pulled him to his feet and tugged the shell-shocked father away.

Gordon just stared at John, tears pouring down his face. "C'mon, son," John said soothingly, holding out a hand. "We need to get out of here."

Closing his eyes, Gordon took the hand.

-

He sat shotgun in John's truck; Will and Ellen rode with Turner and Singer in Turner's SUV. Neither of them spoke for miles.

Finally, Gordon asked, "Where are we headed?"

"Back to Fitchburg," John answered.

Gordon nodded and was silent all the way to the hotel.

_- _

When Gordon dreamed that night, it was of death and darkness and Cade's blue eyes accusing him of being too slow, too late, too weak.

Dean had a cameo. Dean's eyes were solemn and he said, "I'm sorry."

Gordon huffed out a bark of laughter and asked, "_You_ the one that killed him?"

"No," Dean answered, shaking his head. "But the thing that did thinks we declared war. So It's going after anyone who could be an ally. Dad's already called everyone, warned 'em to go to ground. But Jo and Cade—we didn't have time."

"War, huh?" Gordon echoed. He bared his teeth. "I think I can handle that."

"No," Dean said, with the shake of his head. "You can't. This isn't your fight."

Narrowing his eyes, Gordon lunged forward, grabbed Dean's collar. "You won't keep me out of this, Winchester. That demon brought it to me and I will see it done."

Dean raised his hands to cover Gordon's. "This is what I was meant to do, Walker. Me, Sammy, Jake, and Michael—even Asher. What we were born for. The demon—It took too much, too soon, attempted to kill family… succeeded in killing family." Dean's eyes entreated Gordon to listen, really listen. "It thinks we declared war, but we didn't. It did, twenty-three years ago, when It killed Mom. And now… by killing Jo, by trying to kill Michael, Asher, and Joanna… by chasing me and Sam our whole lives… It's sealed Its coffin shut. And you can't fight this, Walker. It'd kill you."

Gordon released Dean and spun away, muttered a curse. "So, your… unnaturalness was meant to defeat this filthy demon."

Dean's voice was cold. "Yes."

"And because of you, your family—Cade is dead."

Dean didn't hesitate. "Yes."

So Gordon whirled around to face him, aimed his gun right between Dean's eyes. "Then tell me why I shouldn't kill you now."

And Dean smiled. "Because you're dreaming, Walker. And if you attempted this while conscious, you'd be dead before your finger received the message to pull the trigger."

Gordon woke with a half-shrieked curse and dread curling through him.

-

He padded into the kitchen three days after arriving back at Joanna Springs' hotel. He'd slept and attempted sleep, but he hadn't cried. He hadn't cried since they left the Roadhouse's gutted frame and knew he never would again. He felt all the walls that'd been broken down over the years building back up, but he didn't have the strength or inclination to halt their progress.

Rosalind. Jo. Cade. He didn't have the room for any more, so he closed off.

Joanna was alone in the kitchen, scrambling eggs. Gordon silently took a chair at the table. "Who all's here?" he asked and she spun around with a gasp.

"Oh," she laughed. "Mr. Walker." She turned back around and said, "Mr. Singer, Pastor Jim, Mr. Winchester, Dean, Sam, and Jake. Oh, and Mr. and Mrs. Harvelle."

Gordon stared down at the table, tracing a design with his finger. Everything was hazy, far away—but beneath the numbing pain, he felt anger and hate stirring, demanding vengeance, demanding he hunt down the thing that killed them and tear It from the face of the earth.

"Anyone else on the way?" He wondered that he didn't sound as hollow and shattered as he felt.

She shook her head, moved the eggs from the pan to a plate. Glancing over her shoulder she asked, "Want some?"

"No, ma'am," he said, shaking his head. He wasn't hungry. He wasn't thirsty. He just ached, inside and out.

-

For a few days, Gordon just existed. He walked around the hotel like a ghost, seldom speaking. Ellen never left the room Joanna gave them, but Will did, once. His eyes were red with bags under them, and all he did was ask Joanna if he could prepare some food for himself and his wife.

John was cloistered with Dean, Sam, and Jake; Singer and Murphy were perusing books and taking notes.

The fifth day there, Gordon sat down with Singer and Murphy, asked if there was anything he could do to help. Murphy passed him a book and told him to look for demon traps.

The eighth day there, John called a meeting of all the adults and they clustered in the kitchen.

-

"If we know Its name, we can defeat It. For good." John's voice was solemn, soft.

"And I suppose," Ellen bit out, the words fragile and cutting, "that It'll have told something we can ask?" Tears were building in her eyes.

Dean raised his head and the slow movement caught Gordon's eye. He glanced over, saw Dean staring at Sam, brow furrowed.

When Dean spoke, the soft words made everyone listen. "Sammy, what was she apologizing for?"

Sam frowned and Jake shifted between them, glancing from one to the other. "Jake," Sam asked, "back when—did you ever learn Its name?"

Jake shook his head. "I don't even know Marisol's real name."

Dean looked down at the table, trailed his fingers along the grain. "Ellen," he said, flicking his gaze up, "what was Mom's real last name?"

"You don't know?" Her voice was full of disbelief.

"We don't know anything," he responded. "Not the history, not the lore—nothin'. Just that…" he sighed and looked back down. "Just that everything's so twisted and fucked up, we'll never escape."

" Roanoke," she whispered. "Mary was the youngest acknowledged daughter."

"Who are all the still-living descendents?" Sam queried, sitting up straight.

"John," Singer cut in, "what the hell—"

"Bobby." John's tone shut everyone up. "I don't fully understand, but Mary was the best person I've ever known. That demon killed her, and apparently a lot of other good people—her sister, who I met at our wedding, Sam's girl Jessica, Cade and Jo—and hundreds of others. Dean, Sam, and Jake—they're my boys. And if they can defeat this bastard, then I'll do anything to help."

John's gaze shifted around the table, starting with Gordon. "Now, you can either stand with us or get the fuck out of Dodge. Your call."  
They were all quiet for a moment, then Gordon said, "It killed two people I loved. And I want…" he paused, took a deep breath. "Vengeance. Any way I can get it." He looked at Dean, then Sam, then Jake. "This didn't start out my fight, but I can't walk away now."

John inclined his head. "Ellen, Will?"

"We're not goin' anywhere," Will replied, placing his hand over Ellen's.

Smiling sadly, John turned to Murphy. "Jim?"

"Twenty years I known ya, John," Murphy said. "I owe you a debt I'll never be able to repay. Any fight'a yours is a fight'a mine."

"Storm comin', John," Singer began before John could turn and ask. "And I think ya'll have been in the middle for a very long time. We've had our differences, our quarrels… but I'll stand with you. I trust you." He nodded to John and then glanced over at Dean. "You sure the three'a ya can handle what's comin'?"

Everyone looked at Dean, waiting for his answer. He turned his head to see Ellen; softly, he asked his question again. "Who are the still-living descendents?"

"Kenneth," she muttered. "The oldest. Me, Joanna, you three, Michael, and Asher." She flicked her gaze from his to the tabletop. "And that's it."

"Wait," Joanna interrupted. "What?"

Ellen laughed sadly, and it had an hysterical edge to it. "Sorry, kiddo," she said. "You're Cassandra's daughter. When she died, I brought you myself to Jackson, left you with a family that I knew'd take good care of you. Checked in now and again, to be sure, but stopped when I had my own daughter." Joanna's eyes were huge, shocked, and her face slack. "Why'd you think the demons took an interest in your boys, hon?" Ellen asked. She answered her own question, bitterly. "Because it's Roanoke blood in their veins. Same as Mary's, same as them." She nodded towards Dean, Jake, and Sam.

Joanna shook her head in denial, looking to Dean for something Gordon couldn't name. Dean raised his head, met her eyes. "They're caught, Joanna," he said. "Just like us. Until this is finished, until that murdering bastard is dead, they'll never be safe. Neither will you be."

Joanna pushed back from the table, causing her chair to flip as she stood. Still shaking her head, she turned, hurried towards the door. "I'm gettin' my sons," she called over her shoulder. "And then we're gettin' the hell outta here."

Everyone watched in stunned silence, but Dean followed her out. Sam got up to go after them, but Jake grabbed his arm and shook his head. Sam settled back into his chair.

Ellen sighed and sagged down, resting her head on the table. Will threaded his fingers through her hair. John looked across the table and met Gordon's gaze, but when he spoke the words were directed to Jake.

"We need to know. Everything."

Jake turned slightly towards Sam and took a deep breath.

-

Gordon paced around his room, unable to sleep. He'd done crunches, push-ups, sharpened knives, and cleaned guns. He was considering jumping jacks, though he'd always hated them.

Rosalind. Jo. Cade. Demons and bloodlines and destiny. Meddling.

Damn, but Gordon'd stepped right into a nightmare and now there'd be no waking up. It was a war, now. Maybe it had always been a war, but Gordon hadn't been a part of it.

He could walk away. He could. The demon, whatever the fuck It was after, wanted the Winchesters too much to focus on a fringe hunter. He could vanish, fade—escape.

Rosalind. Jo. Cade.

Cade.

Gordon turned, looked at the door.

Cade.

He threw himself on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Rosalind.

He couldn't walk away.

_Cade_.

-

Gordon was teaching Michael a few knife techniques when the girl showed up. The kid was good, better than good—nowhere near Gordon, or the Winchesters, but still pretty damned skilled.

Michael'd explained his practice—late at night, pockets here and there—which didn't cover how good he was. Gordon bet it had something to do with his family, the Roanoke—whoever the hell they were.

Dean had somehow calmed Joanna down, convinced her to stay. Joanna was still angry, still skittish, but she dug in her heels. After she'd come back to the meeting, she'd stood in the doorway, looked at Ellen then John. "This is my life," she said. "My home. My sons. And no _demon_ is going to take anything away."

John inclined her head and she sat back down.

They'd fortified the hotel as best they could, taken file upon file of notes, were as ready as they'd ever be. But they didn't make a move because they had no idea where the demon was, what It was doing, who It'd go after next. John and Ellen had called everyone they could think of and the word had spread: prepare for war and be ready for anything.

Only Bobby Singer and Jim Murphy had stayed with them at the hotel.

Sam and Jake talked with Joanna and the boys, helped them practice their abilities. Michael had telekinesis, apparently, though not a lot—just enough for a slight edge, if his opponent was off-guard. It definitely helped his knife throwing, but it wasn't a sure thing all the time. Asher was telepathic, though only with his blood kin. And Joanna had dreams that sometimes came true.

"Why are we so powerful?" Gordon heard Sam ask Ellen. "And they're not?"

"You're Maralyn's," Ellen answered. "She was the most powerful in… well, ever. She was the culmination. But then she had your brother, you. I never was powerful, not even a blip on the radar, really. And Jo…" Ellen laughed, though it sounded like a sob. "She was a good shot. Seems like the Roanoke are really good killers." She took a deep breath and exhaled. "It's not fair, I know. You think they should be more gifted, like you. Like Dean and Jake."

"It's just…" Sam started then trailed off.

"It'll work out, Sam. I promise. We're here, all that remain. The family stretched too far, too quickly, and that's why they failed. I think… if all four of us, Kenneth, Cassandra, your momma, and me—if we'd stood together, It wouldn't have had a chance. We're stronger as a family."

Gordon slipped away before hearing any more.

He couldn't help in the 'magic' department, in the innate gifts bit, but he could train the kids to fight. As much as he wanted to hide them away somewhere safe, he knew that place didn't exist. The very blood in their veins was a beacon, a siren call. There was nowhere they could go that the demon and Its acolytes couldn't find them.

-

"Why'd your brother turn?" Gordon asked one night at dinner.

Ellen flinched but didn't look up from her plate. "He was weak," she snarled. "He gave in because he didn't want to fight." She stabbed her fork into her spaghetti and raised her eyes. "The eldest is not the most powerful, except in rare anomalies. And Kenneth is only a little stronger than me. If I hadn't… stopped practicing, I could have taken him that day." She looked back down at her meal and continued eating.

Gordon didn't ask anything else and Jim started a discussion with Dean about guns.

-

Michael had just hit the bull's-eye ten times in a row when Singer poked his head into the practice room and called, "Company's coming. John wants the boys hidden away till we know if it's good company or not."

Gordon nodded and strode to the target, pulled the knife from it. "You know where to go, kid," he said, and Michael rushed off, blade in hand.

Trusting Michael to actually hide away with his brother, Gordon hurried to the office, met up with Joanna there. "We know anything?" he asked, helping her straighten up. She shook her head.

"Jake just said she's a girl, young, lookin' for somethin'. Whether she's like that Meg or not, he couldn't tell."

Jake had gone into detail about the ceremony required to end such a powerful demon as the one hunting them, but only with the Winchesters and Ellen. He'd said the more people that knew, the less likely it'd work. Gordon wasn't sure he believed that, but he was just too tired to pick fights with his allies.

-

When the girl slipped into the check-in area of Joanna's hotel, she paused.

Joanna stood behind the desk, Gordon next to her. Just out of sight, John and Sam waited. Bobby and Jim were patrolling the perimeters of the property and Jake was with the kids, ready to defend them.

Dean was the wild card. Gordon had no idea where he was.

The girl was bruised and looked like she'd flee at the slightest provocation. She was slight, young. She licked her lips, looking at Joanna then Gordon. Her blond hair framed her face and Gordon could see the strength in her eyes. She was playing them, seeking sympathy.

When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "Is Dean or Sam here?"

Gordon and Joanna shared a glance. "Who're you?" Gordon asked.

"Kat," she answered. "They saved me and I…" she trailed off, looked away, ran a hand through her hair. "I need…"

When she raised her gaze, her eyes were midnight-black.


End file.
